


Somewhere Between The End And The Point Where We Began

by BlackUnicorn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Character Death, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Conflicted Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Really Character Death, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Hunters, Vampire Crowley (Good Omens), Vampire Turning, Vampires, Werewolves, Witches, but they're vampires so...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24624337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackUnicorn/pseuds/BlackUnicorn
Summary: Beginnings are slippery little things. They’re easy to misplace, sometimes they get lost in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. You look for them under your bed and in your closet and between the cushions of your couch, they’re nowhere to be found, and then, maybe, you turn around and there it is, plain as day, and you think of course! I’d wondered where you’d gotten to.This story’s beginning was a bit like that.***A human and a Vampire - hereditary enemies, unlikely associates, best friends.Crowley and Aziraphale had been comfortable in their pattern for years but the upcoming initiation of Adam Young into the Crown's Order, a ruthless Hunting organisation dedicated to erasing all supernatural life by more than questionable means, forced them to take sides and act. By all means, it probably shouldn't have worked as well as it did.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling/Adam Young
Comments: 39
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started because I was rewatching Buffy. Then it turned into something else. There are no teenagers being turned into Vampires here because I hate that.  
> There is mention of blood, obviously, but nothing too graphic I think.  
> Enjoy.

Beginnings are slippery little things. They’re easy to misplace, sometimes they get lost in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. You look for them under your bed and in your closet and between the cushions of your couch, they’re nowhere to be found, and then, maybe, you turn around and there it is, plain as day, and you think _of course! I’d wondered where you’d gotten to._

This story’s beginning was a bit like that.

It might have started a few years ago, in an antique and well-loved bookshop in Soho, London, when an average looking, middle-aged man had just sat down to enjoy his second tea of the day with a few biscuits on the side when the phone had rung.

“A. Z. Fell & Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books, how can I help you?”

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” the voice on the other end of the line had greeted him, “ _We have a job for you. A new recruit. He’ll be arriving in a few days. Make sure to be ready when he does._ ”

It might also have started many years ago, when that same average looking, middle-aged man, who hadn’t actually been middle-aged yet back then, had walked through his university campus late at night after some intense last-minute studying for the next day’s literature exam and met a darkly clad figure with blood on his lips who had had some interesting opinions on Shakespeare, the importance of Witches for feminism, and ducks. 

Or, it might have started way, way back, in the times of kings and queens and bad sanitation when a handsome, red-haired man had stumbled out of a tavern after one too many drinks and ran into a mysterious stranger who had changed his life forever with just one kiss.

It might as well also have started at any other point in time, and anyway, the beginning was not what was of interest here. More often than not, beginnings were boring at best and awkward at worst. It wasn’t the ending either. No…no what was of interest here was the middle. The stuff inbetween. The exciting bits that could be made into stories.

Stories like this one.

* * *

The kettle had just boiled and Aziraphale Fell was about to pour the hot water into his waiting angel-winged mug when he felt it – a barely-there shift in the air behind his back, telling him that he wasn’t alone.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, continuing to make his tea, “One of these days I am going to stake you.”

“You keep saying that, angel,” the person behind him replied, the smirk audible in his voice, “And yet, I’m still here.”

“That you are.” Aziraphale turned around, tea in hand, and looked at his visitor.

Crowley was indeed smirking, his teeth just this side of too sharp, and the mischief written all over his face, visible even through the sunglasses he kept insisting on wearing despite the late hour. “What do you want?” It was a redundant question, really, but it was part of their routine, and Aziraphale was, if nothing else, a creature of habit.

“Was in the area, thought I’d drop by.” The way Crowley was lounged against the windowsill, hips sticking out in angles that were beyond unnatural, fingers hooked into the tiny pockets of his too-skinny trousers, he was the embodiment of casual, and yet Aziraphale could see the tension and anxiety that was as ingrained into Crowley as his penchant for mischief and mayhem.

Aziraphale bit down on his lower lip, clasping the tea in front of his chest with both his hands. He knew only all too well what he should do, what he should have done a long time ago but, as Crowley had so helpfully pointed out, he wouldn’t, because he hadn’t.

“You’re putting us both in danger,” he said, “I could have had company.”

Crowley peered at Aziraphale over the frames of his sunglasses, one eyebrow arched up, piercing him with hazel-brown eyes. He didn’t say anything, however, which was just as well, as they both knew that the chances of Aziraphale having company this late at night were about as high as Aliens crash-landing in the Thames. In the end, Crowley let out a deep breath that almost sounded like a sigh, and reached behind his own back, to retrieve a white plastic bag.

“Sushi and wine?”

The day that Aziraphale turned down an invitation like that would be the very same day the Aliens came down and he had someone with him other than Crowley, which was why he didn’t even have to think about it when he smiled at Crowley and accepted the bag.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

* * *

Adam had been training for near two years now, which meant in about a week he’d turn 18, which meant he’d be officially initiated into the Order, which meant he would finally be rid of his pesky mentor whose only purpose in life seemed to be getting on Adam’s last nerve.

“Remember, Adam, you must always be cautious,” he’d say.

“Your first responsibility is to protect, not harm,” he’d say.

“It is important to know all the facts. Never act impulsively,” he’d say.

As if Adam didn’t carry at least one stake and two knives on him at all times, as if Adam wasn’t out there patrolling every night to make sure everyone was safe, as if Adam didn’t spent hours upon hours in that blasted bookshop to do research till his eyes bled.

Not that Mr. Fell was all bad, of course. He wasn’t. Just a bit old-fashioned, a bit fussy, a bit set in his ways. He wouldn’t strike you as someone who fought monsters for a living, either, but more as someone who preferred a good meal over even the slightest bit of exercise, theory over practice, talk over violence. He struck you as someone who was, overall, a kind person, a sweet person, and, after two years, Adam had yet to see proof of the opposite. Mr. Fell was also, Adam found, incredibly boring. He didn’t seem to have any friends, always cooped up in his old bookshop, never doing anything worthwhile or, God forbid, exciting. The man didn’t even own a TV, for crying out loud!

All things considered, Adam had absolutely no idea what Mr. Fell was doing, being in the Order. He just didn’t seem the type.

“Adam, I’m freezing and starving, can we please go home now?” Brian moaned, bringing Adam back to the present.

“It is quite late, Adam,” Wensleydale agreed, pushing his glasses back up his nose only to have them slide back down almost immediately.

“I guess.” It was late, that much was true, and it was also not what you’d call a warm summer night, and Adam’s stomach might or might have been growling at the mere thought of food.

“Well, it’s decided then,” Pepper chipped in, “Let’s head back.”

They were walking through Hyde Park and had already found five non-human creatures lurking behind trees and hedges and taken care of them accordingly. It was, Adam had to agree, time to go home. Or rather, Pepper’s home, seeing as Jo, Pepper’s mum, didn’t really care how long they stayed out during the weekends. Climbing the fence, the little group of teenagers made their way up Piccadilly and cut through Soho to get to Pepper’s house, and Adam couldn’t help but throw a look at A. Z. Fell & Co.. It was dark in the shop, the little flat above, however, was not. Through the flimsy curtains, Adam could see light shining through, making him wonder what the old man was doing up at 1 in the morning.

_Reading, probably_ , he thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I need to get up early tomorrow,” he told his friends as they walked through the more abandoned streets of London, “Fell wants me to report to him first thing in the morning.”

“We’ll come with you,” Brian assured him, but Adam shook his head.

“I promised him I wouldn’t take you patrolling anymore, remember?”

Mr. Fell had nearly had a canary when he’d found out Adam’s friends were going monster hunting with Adam.

“Must I tell you how incredibly irresponsible that is, young man?” he’d raged, “Endangering your friends like that – what were you thinking?”

Adam, of course, had been thinking that it would be pretty useful to have back up, that it wouldn’t be nearly as boring to walk through empty parks and graveyards if he had someone there with him, and, and this was possibly the biggest reason, he had lost the ability to tell his friends what to do a long time ago.

“I’m sorry,” he had said to his mentor, “I won’t do it again. Promise.”

“See that you don’t.”

Maybe, Adam mused now as he thought back to that moment, Mr. Fell wasn’t all sweet and kind after all.

* * *

“You’re a real bastard, you know tha’, angel?” Crowley slurred. His sunglasses had been lost somewhere between the first and second bottle of wine, discarded on the table, and he was sprawled on the couch, a wicked grin on his face.

“I most certainly am not!” Aziraphale protested, topping up his glass and effectively emptying bottle number three.

“You emptied your cold tea over someone’s trousers so they wouldn’t buy a book!.”

“It was a first edition!”

“Bastard.” The word rolled off Crowley’s tongue like something sweet, something precious, filled and dripping with affection and admiration, and Aziraphale blushed, hoping it wouldn’t be too obvious between the low lighting and the haze of the alcohol.

“Well. So are you.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Crowley reached to the table and opened the fourth, and last, bottle, foregoing his glass altogether but instead raising it straight to his lips, Adam’s Apple bobbing as he took a large gulp. “Anyway,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and holding the wine out to Aziraphale, who accepted it and drank, remembering a moment too late that his glass was still full, “How’s your charge?”

“Adam?”

“Adam! Tha’s his name. How’s he?”

“Adam is just fine,” Aziraphale answered, unsure where this line of question came from but accepting it as one of Crowley’s whims, “He’s a bright boy. Bit implu – impulsive. Nice.” Crowley grimaced at the word as if tasting something bitter. He did that sometimes. Aziraphale had learned to ignore it. “Why?”

“’s turning 18, inne?”

“Yes! Yes, few days.” Aziraphale nodded, not simply his head but his whole body, sloshing wine all over the carpet. “Oh, bugger.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze and stared at the wine on the floor. “Tha’s gonna stain.”

“Was a nice carpet.”

“Was.”

Both men stared reverently at the tragedy that had unfolded. Distantly, Aziraphale thought that he should probably try and clean it up before it soaked in and ruined the carpet irrevocably but, and this was far more relevant, he was comfortable exactly where he was, sitting in his armchair, warm and drunk and cosy. The carpet could wait.

“Anyway,” Crowley said, shaking the both of them out of their stupor, “Adam.”

“Adam,” Aziraphale repeated, trying to remember what he’d been saying before spilling the wine, “What about him?”

“He’s gonna be 18. Gonna be inti – inititi – the thingy. With’e ritual.”

Aziraphale nodded. In just a few days Adam would, indeed, undergo the thingy with the ritual. “It’ll be all nice and proper,” he stated happily.

“You tell him yet?”

Aziraphale blinked, his delight turning somewhat sour for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Tell him what?”

“You know what,” Crowley hissed, rolling his eyes in a fit of real irritation, “They’re gonna have ‘im all drugged up and brainwashed in no time and he should know.”

“And he will.”  
As far as Aziraphale was concerned, that would have been the end of it, but, how else should it be, Crowley disagreed, raising his eyebrows at him.

“’fore or after ‘s too late?”

Aziraphale huffed, draining the remains of his wine glass. “What do want me to do, Crowley?” he asked, “Adam will join the Order in a few days, end of discussion.”

“Only if you tell ‘em to. ‘s how it works, innit? You got the last word.” Aziraphale frowned, not sure he was understanding what Crowley was trying to say. “You could jus’ tell ‘em that he’s not – wha’s’eword – suitable.”

“I – I –” Aziraphale stuttered, “I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing!” he cried out, momentarily forgetting that he was sitting in his armchair and nearly falling out and to the floor while trying to back away.

“Tempted, is what you are,” Crowley shot back, leaning forward.

“Crowley, I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You don’t like it anymore ‘an I do.”

“Of course, I don’t like it.” And he didn’t. He hated it, in fact. But – “That’s not the point. The point is – the point is that this how it is. How it’s always been.”

“And it’s wrong,” Crowley argued.

“Now, wrong’s a bit of a strong word for it. Slightly – that is – slightly questionable, perhaps…”

Crowley was giving him that look again, a bit disbelieving and a lot exasperated and Aziraphale found himself struggling for words. He’d like nothing more than to defend the Order and their methods because, after all, they were the ones that protected the world from evil, from the creatures of the night, creatures of the damned. Creatures like Crowley himself.

“Crowley, I can’t,” he repeated. It was true. It was all he could say. It was all there was to say. “I won’t.”

Across from him, Crowley deflated, something like defeat entering his eyes as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright,” he said, “Alright.”

It didn’t look right, somehow. Aziraphale watched as the Vampire across from him took back the wine and nearly emptied it in one smooth move before setting the bottle onto the table with a decisive clunk and picking up his glasses.

“I should go.”

_What, already?_ Aziraphale wanted to ask, _won’t you stay?_ But it was no good and Aziraphale knew Crowley was right. He _should_ go. And yet, in the hazy privacy of his drunken mind, Aziraphale could allow himself to be honest and admit that he didn’t _want_ Crowley to leave.

“Crowley,” he said with no idea where that sentence would go, feeling terribly helpless as the man in question stood up and ran his hands down his clothes, smoothing out the creases from his chronic sprawling.

“Good night, angel.” He was moving now, away from Aziraphale and towards the kitchen window which he had used to get in before, about to leave.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said again, stronger this time, more urgent, and Crowley stopped to turn around and look at Aziraphale, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’ll see you around, angel.”

And then he was gone, leaving Aziraphale with nothing but a bitter aftertaste and the creeping certainty that something, somewhere had gone terribly wrong. That, somehow, he’d made a mistake. That, without even noticing, he’d taken the wrong path and now found himself in unfamiliar, untreated territory.

“Crowley, I can’t,” he said once more into the quiet emptiness of his flat but instead of sounding stern and resolute, the words were filled with regret. Regret for what exactly, Aziraphale didn’t dare examine too closely.

_I should go to bed_. He was drunk and maudlin, some water and a good night sleep would make him feel better, he was sure. Besides, Adam was due to come by in the morning and it wouldn’t do to be hungover when that happened.

_Yes,_ he decided _, I should go to bed and tomorrow everything will be different_.

* * *

Adam wasn’t surprised to find the bookshop closed. Fell’s opening hours were, much like so many other things about the man, a riddle posed in a language that only Fell himself understood. And maybe not even that. Not that Adam had ever truly tried to solve it, mind. All he needed to know was where the key for the backdoor was hidden, which he did, so that, as they said, was that. What did surprise Adam was that Fell was still in his pyjamas, sipping on something that looked like milk with a hint of tea and looking quite miserable.

“Good lord, is that the time?” he exclaimed the second he saw Adam standing in his door, “I do apologize. Let me just –” He trailed off while scurrying through a door that Adam assumed lead to his bedroom, leaving Adam alone and confused in the living room.

He’d been to the flat before, of course, but not often and never for long, since Fell seemed to prefer to hold their meetings downstairs in the backroom of the shop. It was cosy, though. Not a surprise considering who lived here. All beige and cream tones and tartan. And books. Piles upon piles upon piles of books. Under the coffee table, Adam noticed, lay an empty bottle of wine.

“I apologize, dear boy.” Dressed in his standard outfit that Adam was sure came straight from the 1800s, Fell came back in and turned towards the kitchen.

“Late night?”

The older man froze. “Pardon?”  
“Did you have a late night?” Adam clarified and Fell turned to look at him, “It’s just. You were in your jammies just a minute ago and there’s a bottle of wine over there.” He pointed into the general direction of the evidence and watching in fascination as Fell’s face lost all colour and he hurried to pick up the bottle, setting it down on the kitchen counter. “Did you have someone over last night?”  
“No,” Fell answered, sounding much stricter than Adam thought was necessary, “No. Just me.” Fell smiled, a small and sweet thing that left his eyes completely untouched. “Have you had breakfast yet? I’m feeling quite peckish.”

Something was off here. Adam might not have known Mr. Fell that well, but two years were more than enough to see when someone was being weird and Fell had passed weird a long time ago and arrived somewhere in wacky. 

“No breakfast,” Adam found himself answering, his mind working furiously to find the pieces to a puzzle he had never even seen a picture from, “You – er – you wanted to talk about my patrol last night?”

“Quite right,” Fell answered, putting a frying pan onto the stove and getting out some eggs and a can of beans, “Everything went smoothly, I trust?”

“No problems,” Adam said, sitting down at the table, and staring at Fells’ back, “Ran into three Vampires, some kind of Demon and what I think was a Ghost or something.”

Fell gave a vague hum, barely audible over the sizzling eggs.

“All six feet under now,” Adam added, not quite successful in keeping the smidge of pride out of his voice.

Another hum, distant and distracted and very much unlike the Mr. Fell that Adam knew.

“Are – are you okay, Mr. Fell?” he asked carefully, not sure if he should even ask. Fell was his mentor and it probably wasn’t his place to ask personal questions.

“Why, of course,” Fell answered, turning around. The smile was back, as hollow as before, and how Adam had never noticed how bad of a liar Fell was, was beyond him. It was impossible to miss, now that he knew, harder even to concentrate on the conversation at hand. Fell was twitchy, on edge, throwing fleeting glances towards a dark stain on the carpet by the armchair. His answers were short, not at all the elaborate tangents he usually went off on, and it worried Adam to be perfectly honest. Mr. Fell was always the embodiment of chipper and cheerful, condescending politeness, and quite possibly the origin of the British stiff upper lip, which must have been, now that Adam considered it, an elaborate cover. The question was, of course, what for?

“I think Fell’s hiding something,” Adam told his friends later over homemade iced tea and lemon squares, “I think it’s time we find out what it is.”

* * *

The flat had been cleaned twice over, the stain on the carpet thoroughly scrubbed, and all his laundry done, leaving Aziraphale with nothing to do but open the shop for an hour or two, hoping that no actual customers would wander in since he didn’t think he’d be able to deal with people today.

He’d barely slept, side effects of the wine, surely, and when he’d woken up he’d felt unusually anxious, and seeing Adam hadn’t helped in the slightest. On the contrary, actually. The boy was ever so nice. Loath as he was to admit it, but Aziraphale had grown overly fond of Adam and he’d hate to see him get hurt, no matter how.

_Still maudlin_ , _then_ , he thought with a sigh, standing up to make himself a cup of tea.

There really was no ground to any of his concerns, of course. He was merely blowing all of this out of proportion. _Crowley_ was blowing all of this out proportion. Adam would be just fine.

Luck was not on his side, it seemed, when the bell over the door chimed, announcing some unwanted visitor. Aziraphale set down his tea, taking a second to arrange his features into the friendliest smile he could muster right about now, before going into the front of the shop.

“Aziraphale! It’s been too long. How have you been?”

It took all of his self-control to not let his face fall when he realised who had come into his shop.

“Gabriel,” he greeted the man, “And Sandalphon. What a – what a surprise.”

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have some regular customers right now…

“Thought we’d drop in, see how things are going,” Gabriel explained, looking around the bookshop with barely concealed disgust.

“They’re going quite well.”  
“That’s what I want to hear.” Gabriel beamed at him, behind him, Sandalphon, his ever-present shadow, remained silent.

“Would you – that is – can I offer you something? Tea?”

“No, no, we’re not staying.”

Aziraphale forced himself to relax, after all, there was no need for worry, and he hadn’t done anything wrong. Drinking with a Vampire notwithstanding, but they couldn’t possibly know about that. Could they?

“Please, why don’t we go into the back?”

The back was no different than the front, of course, except that now no random passer-bys would be able to see them from outside.

_There is no need for worry_ , Aziraphale told himself as he looked up at Gabriel noting that Sandalphon had stayed by the door, standing directly behind his back now, _no need at all_.

“How’s the boy?” Gabriel asked, still beaming.

Shaking off his, frankly unfounded, uneasiness, Aziraphale smiled. “Adam.”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s very well,” Aziraphale answered, not without a hint of pride, “Training hard. He really is quite extraordinary.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Just you wait ‘till he’s all suited up and part of the team. You’ll hardly recognise him.” Aziraphale felt his own smile grow slightly strained, remembering Crowley’s words of the previous night. “That’s why we’re here, actually,” Gabriel continued.

“Oh?”

“You see, I don’t mean to drag up the past. Pour salt into the wound, so to speak. But, the thing is, Aziraphale, you have caused us trouble before. Now, I know, I know, it wasn’t your fault. Everyone makes mistakes. Could have happened to anyone, amiright? But we gave you this second chance and we would hate to see you throw it away. No offence, of course.”  
His hands were clammy, Aziraphale realized distantly. His hands were clammy and shaky and longed for the solid comfort of one of his books, while his heart was doing its damned best at climbing up into his throat.

“I – I – I –” he stuttered, trying to control his breathing. _There is no need for worry_. “I can assure, Gabriel,” he said, grateful for the relative steadiness of his voice, “That is – I am ever so grateful for all this, and Adam is coming along quite nicely and he will be ready for his initiation for his birthday.”

Gabriel clapped his hands together, the sound making Aziraphale flinch.

“I knew I could depend on you,” Gabriel said, stepping forward and putting a hand onto Aziraphale’s shoulder who had to remind himself to keep breathing. “Of course, it goes without saying that you don’t go spoiling the surprise. Don’t want anyone getting any cold feet, now, do we?”

Aziraphale shook his head vehemently. “No. No cold feet.”

“Good man.” Gabriel patted his shoulder and stepped back, looking pleased whole he straightened his lapels and stepped around Aziraphale to leave the back room. “I’ll see you in a few days, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale, for his part, was frozen in place. Quite literally if the ice in his veins was anything to go by.

_There is no need for worry_ , he reminded himself yet again but somehow, for some reason, it did nothing to quell the panic rising in his chest and the nausea settling in his stomach, _no need at all_.


	2. Chapter 2

Vampires did not need to sleep. That being said, Crowley had always loved not being conscious for extended periods of time, to the point where he’d once slept away a near century and missed two world wars – not one of his best moments, he was willing to admit. Crowley loved sleep, was the point, which made it all the more frustrating that, right now, sleep did not love him back.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he sat up. His eyes had no problem penetrating the total, blackout darkness of his bedroom, not that there was much to see, really. The walls were bare. There were no windows. And the only piece of furniture, aside from the bed, was a huge, sleek, black wardrobe.

Sighing again, Crowley looked at his phone. 10 a.m.

_Ahh, what the hell…_

He got out of his bed and propped the door ajar, carefully peeking outside. There were no windows in the hallway either, but he had learned a long time ago that it never hurt to be extra paranoid about these things, even if he had very strict rules about sunlight in his home. It simply wouldn’t do to disintegrate because someone was careless with the curtains.

He missed it sometimes. Sunlight. The warmth on your skin on a nice summer day while a cool breeze played with your hair. He probably should have gotten used to it by now, after all, it had been 600 years since he’d last stepped outside during the day and not burst into flames. It did tend to make the whole experience a tad bit uncomfortable. Not to mention embarrassing.

The flat was silent and empty. No surprise there. After all, he was usually asleep at this time of day and Warlock was at school or with their downstairs neighbours, talking conspiracy theories with the Witch while old Madam Tracy spoiled him with homemade cakes and biscuits. Or he watched telly with the Wolves. Either way, it was probably a good thing that Warlock wasn’t home.

The kitchen was equally dark as the rest of the flat and Crowley didn’t bother turning on the lights, instead he opened the fridge. It was well stocked with eggs and milk and blood bags and one of Tracy’s Victoria Sponge cakes. It was heavenly, or so he’d been told, if you went in for that kind of thing, which Crowley very rarely did.

What was worse, the cake, now, just made him think of Aziraphale.

 _Maybe I should give it to him_ , Crowley mused, taking out a bag of blood and laying onto the counter while he started looking for a straw, _I’m sure he’d love it_.

Except, he wouldn’t, of course, because it would come from Crowley and, where Crowley was concerned, Aziraphale was a bit of a loose cannon. One moment they drank and talked and got along like a house on fire – and where even did that expression come from? – and the next Crowley, could watch as Aziraphale shut all the doors and windows right in his face, drew the curtains closed and put up high-security locks for good measure. Like last night. That had been a bit of a cock-up. A regret. Crowley was a collector of those. Regrets.

One just had to look at the night that had ended his life. Lucifer had seemed like a good chap at first, smiling seductively and giving him complements, and before Crowley knew what was happening, he’d had sharp teeth buried in his neck and the life drained out of him and been force-fed blood that had burned like acid through his veins .

Anyway, he shouldn’t have pushed. Pushing was a sure way to meet resistance, in any case, but in Aziraphale’s specifically.

Taking his blood now with the found straw, Crowley strolled from the kitchen into the living room. The flat had changed ever since Warlock had happened. What had once been all sharp edges and chrome surfaces, now had _stuff_ and _things_. Knick-knacks. There were pictures of Warlock on the walls, random notes and some of the boy’s more embarrassing childhood drawing stuck to the fridge, the bookshelf held actual books, the music-shelf included My Chemical Romance, and inbetween various James Bond and Indiana Jones movies stood The Lion King and Harry Potter and The Fault in Our Stars. It was awfully domestic and made Crowley feel all kinds of feelings. It was also the best thing to ever happen to him in his long-winded, undead existence. That and Aziraphale.

_Oh. Here we go again._

He should have seen that one coming, really. A near 600-year track record of Not Getting Attached and then this. All it had taken in the end had been white-blond angel curls, and a kind smile where a stake to the heart would have been more appropriate. Crowley had been doomed from the get-go, if he was being honest.

“Dad?”

Crowley jumped at the voice and turned around; he hadn’t even heard Warlock enter the flat.

“Hello, my little hellspawn.” The little hellspawn in question, who was neither particularly little anymore nor from hell, grimaced at the name as he stepped further into the room. “How was your morning, then?”

“Madam Tracy taught me how to make scones, Anathema complained about Johnson, and Newt broke his laptop.”

“Again?” To be fair, this laptop had lasted a whole six months, which could certainly be counted as progress. The average lifespan of Newt’s electronics was anywhere between seven days and seven weeks.

Warlock shrugged, which was probably answer enough. “How was your night? Do anything exciting?”

“Nghk – Not really,” Crowley answered, ignoring the pang of guilt, he just…he couldn’t tell Warlock about Aziraphale. He couldn’t tell anyone about Aziraphale. It was too risky. If Aziraphale’s bosses ever got wind of their…whatever it was they had…well. Crowley didn’t actually dare to think about what would happen if they knew.

“Are you going out again tonight?” Warlock asked, walking over to Crowley and picking up his empty blood bag, discarding it in the bin.

 _Am I?_ Crowley wondered. He thought of the cake in the fridge, and how much Aziraphale would like it. He thought of Aziraphale’s stern rebuff the previous night. And he thought of Warlock, his son and the centre of his world.

“Nah,” he said, “Thought we’d watch some movies. You can paint my nails.”

The smile on Warlock’s face was worth the not-seeing-Aziraphale part of that deal and it didn’t take long for Crowley to actually not actively think about the bookseller for an entire five minutes. As soon as he realised this, of course, his regular train of thought came barrelling in.

_Dear Satan, I’m tragic._

* * *

Adam

Hey 😊 Hows it going?

Warlock

Watching movies w/ my dad. U?

Adam

James bond?

Adam

Im at peps

Adam

Wanna hang out later?

Warlock

The Mummy. And id love to but its dads night off and I havent spent time w/ him in a while, so…:/

Adam

Gotcha.

Adam

Hows tmrw look?

Warlock

Tmrw should be fine

Warlock was very much aware that his dad kept throwing him curious glances whenever his phone buzzed and he typed out another response to Adam, not that either of them mentioned anything about it. Why exactly Warlock was so reluctant to tell his dad about Adam and the Them, he wasn’t sure, except that his dad took being a Cool Dad™ a little bit too seriously and was, more often than not, simply embarrassing, bordering on straight up inappropriate.

Adam

How was your day?

Warlock

Nothing special. I made scones w/ my aunt and talked politics w/ my other aunt

Adam

Is that a good or a bad thing?

Warlock

It’s a thing

Warlock

My aunt hates johnson. I tend to agree w/ her

Adam

Who wouldnt?

Warlock

My uncle ☹

Adam

Ahh. Family drama?

Warlock

Just the normal stuff. He can be difficult sometimes but hes not so bad once you get to know him

Adam

My dads like that. Hes so ignorant sometimes

Warlock

Familys tough

Adam

It sure is

Adam

Peps mums pretty chill though

Adam

That’s why we always hang at hers

Warlock

Pep is pretty chill from I can see. Must run in the family then

Adam

Youre pretty chill too

Warlock

Aww. You say the sweetest things

Adam

I try

It was hard to keep the smile off his face. He’d met Adam and his friends at a post-graduation party, and they’d hit it off right away. There was something about Adam, something captivating, that couldn’t be put into words, something that drew you in and wouldn’t let you go. He was special, Warlock found. Now, the only problem was the lying. He’d made up some night-time security job for his dad, since he couldn’t exactly say that his dad was a Vampire who usually slept during the day and _oh yeah, we always keep blood in the fridge for him, no worries, though, he’s not actually dangerous_. So, yeah. The lying was a problem and Warlock wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep it up.

“Okay there, Warlock?”

His eyes snapped over to his dad who had given up any pretence of watching the movie and instead looked at him with growing concern edged into his features.

“Yeah.”

“We can watch something else, if you like.”

Warlock shook his head and made an effort to concentrate on the screen once more where Rick currently threw Evelyn over the railing of the boat. “No,” he said, “I was just…thinking.”

It must have been good enough since his dad left it at that, though he did move a little closer and put an arm around Warlock’s shoulder, drawing him in.

On the screen, the boat went up in flames.

* * *

“He’s keeping secrets! From me!”

“He’s seventeen, Crowley. Of course, he’s keeping secrets.”

“Don’t you use your logic on me, Witch.”

The Witch sighed, rubbing a hand over her face before elbowing her boyfriend into his ribs who had started nodding off again.

It was three in the morning and Warlock had long since gone to sleep, leaving Crowley alone with his brain which was, under any circumstances, always a bad idea, everyone would tell you, and right now Anathema and Newt in particular since it was them who were kept from their rightful sleep by one frenzy Vampire. Or Anathema was, anyway. Newt had, regardless of the elbowing, started full on snorting again.

“Give me five minutes,” Anathema muttered, and Crowley nodded, turning around to leave the bedroom and wait in the kitchen instead.

Exactly five minutes later, Anathema emerged from her bedroom, wearing an oversized t-shirt on her body and a deep scowl on her face.

“Alright. Again,” the Witch snapped, sitting down at the table, “What happened?”

“He was texting someone!” Crowley exclaimed, frantically pacing up and down the room, “And he kept smiling at his phone and he didn’t even pay attention to Jonathan who’s the best part of the whole movie, what’s the point in watching it if you don’t pay attention to him?! Anyway. He’s keeping secrets from me.” At the end of his rant, Crowley stopped in his tracks and turned to look at Anathema who stared back at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving.

“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly, “Your seventeen-year-old son is texting someone and you’re freaking about it?”

“Yes!”

Anathema blinked. “Dear Lord, give me strength,” she muttered, casting her eyes ceilingwards before letting her head fall and hit the table with a dull _oomph_.

“What? What did I do?” Letting out a groan, Anathema pushed herself up from the table and turned her back to Crowley. “What did I do?” Crowley called out but Anathema was already walking away, towards the bedroom, not even looking at him as she disappeared into it and shut the door with a decisive, final click. “Urgh.”

* * *

Dark clouds hung low over London as Warlock made his way to St. James Park where he was supposed to meet Adam and his friends, and he hoped that it wouldn’t start raining just yet. He felt a little bit bad over sneaking out without telling his dad, or anyone else for that matter, where he was going, but then again, he was going to turn eighteen in a few days. He could do what he wanted. 

One look at his phone told Warlock that the others were at the bridge and Warlock couldn’t help but smile a bit as he hurried through Green Park towards the Mall. Despite the gloomy weather, the parks seemed as popular as ever, families and couples and tourists strolling along the paths, talking and laughing and taking pictures, forcing Warlock to sidestep someone more than once as to not run into them.

A chorus of “hey, Warlock,” greeted him when he finally arrived at his destination, followed by various “how’re you”s.

“Hi, guys. What’s up?”

Dark clouds hung low over London but somehow being here, with the Them, walking through the park and talking about school and uni and the latest Doctor Who episode, things looked a little bit brighter. Warlock had never been one for many friends. Always ever really spending time with his dad and Anathema and Newt and Madame Tracy and old Shadwell. His family. His weird, supernatural, mix-and-match family of Vampires and Witches and Werewolves and maybe, just maybe, Warlock thought, that was the reason for why he tended to not have friends. The same reason for why he was lying to his current friends, right now. Living halfway in two worlds was hard and, sooner or later, you probably had to choose one before they both ripped you in half.

“Lunch, anyone?” Brian asked, just as the skies opened and the rain came pouring down on them. It wasn’t so much a decision to race each other to the café as that it just sort of happened; their feet pounded against the ground, puddles stretched across the pathways, splashing water up in all directions as they ran through them. Somewhere, in the far of distance, thunder echoed through the heavens.

“That was fun,” Brian said, grinning widely and happily as he shook his head like a wet dog.

Next to him, Wensleydale didn’t look nearly as excited, rubbing his glasses with his dripping shirt, blond hair plastered miserably to his forehead.

The inside of the café was warm and dry, though, which was an improvement to the storm roaring outside.

“Why don’t you guys sit down,” Warlock suggested, “I’ll get us some drinks, you see what you wanna eat.”

Adam came with him to the counter, fussing with his hair as he walked and leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind. Right in front of them in the short queue stood a man who must have had the same idea as them, as he, too, was drenched from the rain, his fair hair curling into all directions and his beige coat darkened by the water.

“Mr. Fell?” Adam said, sounding surprised. The man turned around and, despite the fact that he must have been wet to the bone and probably cold, his smile was bright and kind and outright delighted.

“Adam! My dear boy, how nice to see you.”

“You too,” Adam answered, though a little less enthusiastic, “What are you doing here?”

Mr. Fell’s face got, if that was even possible, even more ecstatic. “Oh, I always take a little stroll in the park this time of day. It’s ever so nice to watch the ducks, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

“Of course, it was today that I forgot to bring an umbrella. Such a shame, really.” Mr. Fell sighed, a dramatic, tragic sound that made Warlock want to wrap him up in blankets and make him tea and hot chocolate. “You’re here with your friends, I see.”

“Yeah.” Adam nodded. “Got surprised by the rain, too.”

“It happens. Anyway, do enjoy the rest of the day, and remember to come by the shop later.”

“I will,” Adam said but Mr. Fell had already turned around to place his order. “He’s a – family friend,” Adam explained to Warlock once they carried their drinks back to the table the Them had chosen, “Owns a bookshop in Soho. I help him out sometimes.”

“That’s nice,” Warlock said, full-on meaning it even though Mr. Fell did seem a little strange, but then again, Warlock’s dad was a Vampire so he really couldn’t judge.

“It is,” Adam agreed, and they sat down.

Somehow, however, Warlock couldn’t help but think that that hadn’t been the whole truth.

* * *

Bag swung over his shoulder, Crowley stepped into the lift. It wasn’t night yet, but it was dark enough outside to not barbeque him, which was good enough in his books. Of course, sneaking out like this, was maybe kind of silly, he was a bloody adult after all, and what’s more he was a 600-year-old Vampire, and yet…he couldn’t exactly let the others know that he was off to visit the eccentric bookshop in Soho that never actually sold any books, _oh and by the way the owner’s with the Order, you know the one, but don’t worry, it’s totally cool, he likes me_ – which technically might not have even been true. Crowley thought that Aziraphale liked him, or at least didn’t dislike him, or at least didn’t actively hate him, or at least didn’t want to put a stake through his heart, or at least –

Anyway.

Sneaking out it was.

For someone older than the printing press, Crowley looked damn good, he found, even if it had taken him well over an hour to pick out his clothes and do his hair, only to change again and again and again and eventually settle on the same old black he always wore. The cake from the fridge and the wine and the blood had almost been an afterthought. All he knew was that he needed to see Aziraphale. All he knew was that he wanted to sit among the smell of dust and black tea and honey, feel the warmth of old, well-loved blankets, hear the voice that was always so sweet and soft and sincere.

The lift _dinged_ and the doors slit open, revealing the empty foyer except – except it wasn’t empty.

“Dad?”

“Warlock?”

Crowley blinked. Warlock was standing in front of the lift, the ends of his long, dark hair curling the way it always did when it got wet and an expression on his face that told Crowley he’d caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. The same expression, Crowley guessed, that could be seen on his own face right about now.

Choosing to very much not address what was happening here, Crowley stepped out of the lift and held out his arm to keep the doors open and let his son get in, giving him a subtle nod when he did. This was a conversation to be had, but not now, and if Crowley could put it off until never, well, that was just fine by him.

“Have a nice night,” he managed to choke out before the doors closed all the way.

“You too,” came the faint response and the Warlock was gone.

“Right,” Crowley muttered to himself, readjusting his grip on the bag, “That’s a thing that happened.”

Deciding to think of other things, Crowley turned and left the building, wincing only slightly when the not-quite-night-brightness hit him. A little sunburn maybe, but he’d be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

Guilt was a tricky thing. If you ignored it for too long, it had the irritating tendency to grow and mutate and _lurk_ and then it was entirely impossible to not see it behind every corner and door and window, no matter how you tried to look somewhere else. It was just _there_.

Having Adam around didn’t help.

Not that Aziraphale had anything to feel guilty about, _per se_ , but, well…the growing, mutating, lurking thing in his mind seemed to rather not care about that.

_You should tell him,_ the voice in his head that sounded a lot like Crowley’s whispered.

_He deserves to know_ , it said.

_He should have a choice_.

And whenever the voice got too loud, too insistent, too convincing, Aziraphale gave Adam another book to read, made himself another cup of tea that remained untouched and grew cold, paced another round through the bookshop to check if everything was where it belonged.

_Crowley, I can’t_ , he wanted to say, except this wasn’t Crowley, was it? This was him. Him and his guilt.

Aziraphale remembered his own initiation. He hadn’t known what would happened, just that it had been the Right Thing To Do, and he’d been ever so pleased when he had stepped in front of the highest of The Crown’s Order, when he’d looked up at their stern faces, seen their robes, white and gold and pure, when he’d spoken the words that would forever bind him to the Great Plan of cleansing the world of Evil, when the Chair had risen and handed him the cup.

He hadn’t known what would happen, but it had been the Right Thing To Do.

Except, except, except –

_Would I do it again?_

That was the question, wasn’t it? _Would_ he do it again. Would he make the choice, knowing what it entailed? Knowing the consequences? Knowing the pain and sorrow it would bring?

No one had told him.

No one would tell Adam.

Unless he did.

_I shouldn’t._

Gabriel trusted him with this. _The Order_ trusted him with this.

He had let them down before, not only he had spared Crowley’s life where he shouldn’t have – something the Order didn’t know about and must never find out – but he had also helped Crowley free two Werewolves from captivity whose pups had, a few years later, run rampage through London and killed seven people – something the Order very much did know about and had not liked one bit. They’d exiled him to the bookshop. Not that Aziraphale minded, of course. He loved his bookshop, and he had to admit that he’d never been quite apt for the field work, the fighting and running and gruesome death that went with it. His leg still hurt sometimes from where Eve’s pups had dug their claws in before he had killed them.

But they had given him this chance now and what had he done with it? Gone and fraternized with Demons and Werewolves and Witches, that’s what.

And now he had _doubt_.

_He deserves to know._

“Adam,” Aziraphale said before he could stop himself, turning around to look at the boy who was sitting at the table, books and documents laid out in front of him. He looked so focused, so fascinated, so fully enthralled by whatever he was reading, taking notes as he went along, “I –”

“What is it, Mr. Fell?”

_I can’t._

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, once more ignoring the guilt which had taken on all kinds of horrific eldritch forms as it growled from the shadows, “Why don’t you go home, dear boy? It’s getting rather late.”

Adam blinked, clearly confused, and Aziraphale couldn’t blame him. Usually, it was him who added yet another thing on top of the already overwhelming pile of work, Aziraphale who demanded discipline and concentration, Aziraphale who got lost in his own readings and with no regards to how late it may or may not have been, and it was Adam who pointed towards the clock, all but begging to continue some other time, asking to leave.

“Er. Sure,” the boy finally said, “I’ll just finish this up.”

“Take your time.”

Aziraphale went to make himself yet another cup of tea before taking out an old scroll on Ancient Rome which he’d been meaning to translate for weeks now and never truly gotten around to, but no matter how hard he stared and glared at the writing, it remained stubbornly Latin and any attempt to turn it into something resembling English failed spectacularly.

“Right, I guess I’m off, then,” said Adam, rousing Aziraphale from his misery, “Have a good night, Mr. Fell.”

“You too, dear. Get home safe.”

It was, Aziraphale told himself, the Right Thing To Do.

* * *

Adam glanced back at Mr. Fell before he left the shop for good, but the old man was already engrossed in his scrolls again, not paying any attention to what Adam was doing.

He’d been acting weird all day. Mr. Fell that is. Skittish and nervous, just like yesterday up in the flat, but worse somehow; he hadn’t even been able to look Adam in the eyes without stumbling over his vowels! Something was up, and Adam wanted to find out what it was. The previous day, he and his friends had watched the bookshop from the café across the road but nothing had seemed amiss. Mr. Fell had puttered about, made one hot cocoa after another, scared of some customers, and read a book, before retreating upstairs and, most likely, done the whole thing all over again, minus the customers.

Standing in the flickering lights of Soho’s streetlamps, now, Adam was half-tempted to stick around and see if, maybe, Mr. Fell’s secret included nightly visits of some mysterious stranger after all, even if that thought alone almost made him laugh out loud. Shaking his head, Adam was about to start making his way home, when a movement in the corner of his eyes, caught his attention. There, in the darkness of the alleyway behind the bookshop, barely more than a shadow, black on black – _there_. The faint glow of a cigarette. Adam moved towards the alley, one hand snaked around the handle of his knife, as he peered around the corner. Nothing. The alley was empty. Quickly, Adam checked if the spare key to the backdoor was still in its rightful place behind the loose brick in the wall and let out a breath of relief when it was. He’d told Mr. Fell multiple times that, maybe, he should consider upgrading the shop’s security, but the old man was stubborn and wouldn’t hear anything of it.

“I am perfectly capable of defending my own home, should it really come to that, my dear boy,” he’d said and the discussion had been over once and for all.

_Maybe I was wrong_ , Adam though, _maybe there was nothing here_.

He turned to leave and kicked an empty can across the cobblestone. Swearing under his breath, Adam looked down to see where it went but it wasn’t the can his eyes fell upon.

There, in the middle of the dark alley, was a little pile of ash and several smoked cigarettes.

* * *

A loud crash sounded from upstairs, followed by a litany of curses in at least three languages, and Aziraphale sighed. Of course, tonight of all nights Crowley had to pay him a visit. He just hoped that Adam hadn’t noticed anything.

The Vampire was picking up the shards of the broken mug when Aziraphale entered the flat, muttering under his breath, a black tote bag lying next to him.

“Angel!” he exclaimed when he saw Aziraphale.

“What are you doing here, Crowley?”

The sunglasses were covering Crowley eyes, but Aziraphale was pretty sure he blinked. “What’s it look like?”

“Well, it looks like you broke into my flat. Again. And also broke my favourite mug.”

“That – ngk – that –” Crowley stuttered and scrambled to his feet, “That’s kind of exactly what happened,” he said, having at least the decency to look somewhat guilty, “But,” he quickly added, “I brought cake.”

Crowley pointed to the bag at his feet, smiling brightly, and no matter how much Aziraphale would have wanted to be cross with him, he simply…couldn’t. Crowley was his friend, even if Aziraphale would only ever allow those kind of words in the privacy of his own mind. It was better that way. God only knew what would happen to either of them if anyone were to find out. Not just the Order, no, but Crowley’s Coven, his fellow Vampires who made turning Hunters into prey a sport and who considered the blood of Order members a delicacy.

“Cake?” Aziraphale asked weakly.

“Victoria Sponge,” Crowley confirmed eagerly, stumbling over his own two feet to retrieve the cake from its confinements, “And wine!”

“That’s blood, Crowley,” Aziraphale pointed out, trying to keep his expression stern and disapproving.

“Oh.” Crowley’s hand vanished in the depths of the bag once more before pulling out a nice bottle of red. “Come on, angel.”

“Oh, I –” _I shouldn’t_ , he thought, _the Order would be most displeased_. Except the Order wasn’t there, was it? They never had to know. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

The grin on Crowley’s lips, true and unadulterated, was worth it, Aziraphale found, a grin like that was a rare thing and this one belonged to him and no one else, and he would cherish it.

“Suppose it can’t,” Crowley murmured as he opened a cabinet to get two glasses and a plate, gesturing for Aziraphale to sit down, which he did gladly, allowing Crowley to serve him. The cake, he had to admit, was divine.

Once the bottle Crowley had brought was empty, Aziraphale opened one of his own, and three bottles in just as many hours later, he was in that warm state of haziness that could only be achieved through steady drinking and good company.

“How’s Warlock?” Aziraphale asked, his usually impeccable posture ever so slightly slummed and crooked.

Crowley shifted where he was sitting on the armrest of the sofa, one leg propped up and supporting his arm which supported his head. “Why’d they have to grow up so fast, angel?” he asked, mournful and fatalistic, “He was just a wee lad and now – poof!”

Following some strange, quite possibly drunken, urge, Aziraphale repeated, “Poof!”, before taking a sluggish sip from his drink.

“He’s keeping secrets,” Crowley explained, “And he’s sneaking into the house behind my back. And what’s so great about Starbucks, anyway? Didn’t have that when I was his age.”

“Well, no. That was in 1400,” Aziraphale pointed out

“My point exactly!” Aziraphale did not see how that could have possibly been Crowley’s point.

“He’s gonna turn 18 soon, isn’t he?”

“Hmh. Same day as your boy. Adam,” Crowley answered, “Adam. How is Adam? Saw him just now ‘fore I went in.”

Aziraphale blanched. “You – you did?” he asked, setting down his glass.

Crowley nodded. “Uh-hu. Di’n see me, though, don’ worry. D’you tell him yet?”

And there it was. The inevitable question. Aziraphale had known it would come sooner or later, had expected it, and yet, now that it was here, he still didn’t feel ready.

“Crowley!”

“Well did you?”

Aziraphale reached for his wine glass and emptied it, just to have something to do, to prolong the moment in which he didn’t have to answer.

“If you must know,” he said, eventually, “I had a visit from headquarters the other day and they told me not to tell him.”

“Course they did. Big, buggering, bastards, the lot of ‘em.”

“Really now! There is no kind for that need of language,” Aziraphale said, his mouth moving faster than his brain.

“’Cept you, o’ course,” Crowley mumbled into his hand but Aziraphale wasn’t listening.

“No language for that kind of –” he tried again.

_No, no that’s not right either._

“You’re alright.”

“Oh dear.”

_I’m quite drunk, aren’t I?_

“More’n, really. Only bloody human worth knowing.”

“What was that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, doing his best to keep the slur out of his voice and the blur out of his vision.

“Nothin’”

“I think, perhaps, we’ve had enough.” A moot point, really, seeing as they’d drunken the last of Aziraphale’s wine supply. Crowley remained silent for a long moment, looking at Aziraphale with an unreadable expression

“You wanna know what I think?” the Vampire asked after a while.

“Crowley –”

“I think Adam should have a choice,” he continued, ignoring Aziraphale’s protest, “Big fan of choices, me.”

“Crowley –”

“D’you know they took Eric? I liked Eric. Was a decent Vampire. Eric.”

“I’m sorry.” And he was. Aziraphale had never met any of Crowley’s Vampire friends, or non-Vampire friends, really, assuming he had any, but he did know that it wasn’t all cut-and-dried as the Order would have liked everyone to belief. There was good and bad found everywhere and some that were both and some that were neither.

“You’re better ‘an any of ‘em, you know that, angel?” Crowley said, his voice bordering dangerously close on adoration and the Thing that Aziraphale always did his best to ignore.

The Thing that had been there for as long as Aziraphale had known Crowley, slowly getting stronger.

The Thing that, just like guilt, grew and mutated and lurked but, very much unlike guilt, Aziraphale _didn’t want_ to look away. For all that Crowley liked to paint himself in doom and darkness, his heart burned like fire, blindingly bright and beautiful and Aziraphale was caught in its light, entranced by it, by _him_.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, his own heart clenching in his chest.

“Aziraphale…”

_Crowley, we can’t_ , Aziraphale wanted to say, _I’m sorry_.

The words rested on the tip of his tongue, waiting to slip out but Aziraphale bit down on them and swallowed hard, letting the silence hang between them, heavy and stifling and filled with all the things they couldn’t say. It was too dangerous. Even this, sitting together under the cover if night and sharing wine and a few blissful hours, was dangerous. It had always been dangerous – when Aziraphale had first found Crowley diminishing the campus-squirrel population and given him a smile rather than a stake through the heart, and when they’d kept running into each other on Aziraphale’s patrols, and when Crowley had saved Aziraphale from a couple of Ghouls, and when Crowley had come by the bookshop during the opening day and Aziraphale had invited him upstairs into his flat to celebrate, and when Crowley had shown up on Aziraphale’s doorstep with a baby, and, and, and – 

It had always been dangerous, but it had also always been important.

_Crowley_ had always been important.

And Aziraphale didn’t want to look away.

“We’ve had enough,” Aziraphale repeated, unsure about where to go from there. This was the point where Crowley left, where Crowley always left, but the thing was Aziraphale didn’t want him to leave. Not this time. And perhaps, Crowley didn’t want to leave either because he was still looking at Aziraphale, still burning brightly.

He stood up and staggered into the kitchen, towards the sink to fill a glass with water which he gulped down in one go and filled it back up. He needed a clear head. The second glass of water became a third and only then Aziraphale allowed himself to slow down and cast a look back at Crowley who had slipped down from the armrest and was now half lying on the sofa, his eyelids drooping. He looked so comfortable, so _at_ _home_ , here in Aziraphale’s flat, lying on the sofa, and so damned beautiful, it took Aziraphale’s breath away.

Making a decision, Aziraphale opened the fridge and took out one of the blood bags Crowley had brought, opening a drawer for a straw.

“You should eat,” he told the Vampire, handing him the blood.

They didn’t do this. Crowley might have gotten into the habit of keeping blood in Aziraphale’s fridge, but he only ever drank them where Aziraphale couldn’t see, except that was hardly an option now, not with the way Crowley was almost asleep and not-almost drunk.

He seemed unsure, at first; holding the bag loosely in his hand and looking at Aziraphale questionably, who looked back with as much determination as he could muster at 4 a.m. in the morning after 4 bottles of wine, which probably wasn’t much but it must have been enough because Crowley shrugged and started drinking. It was fascinating to watch, as much as Aziraphale hated to admit it, as Crowley’s features slowly changed, becoming harder and sharper and more animalistic, as his teeth grew longer, and his eyes turned the colour of liquid gold.

He was beautiful.

Perhaps it was the moment, uncharted and fragile and calm, or perhaps the wine in Aziraphale’s bloodstream, or perhaps the sight of Crowley trusting him with the most intimate parts of him.

“Stay,” Aziraphale found himself saying, “The bedroom stays dark enough during the day and it’s getting early.”

And perhaps it was the end of a chapter or the beginning of a new one, but Crowley nodded, a single drop of blood trailing down his chin, his neck, getting caught on his collar bone before disappearing underneath his black shirt.

* * *

It was the steady knocking on his door that woke him up, that and the sunbeams breaking through the gap in his curtains.

“Adam!” his mum’s voice sounded faint through the wood, “Adam!”

“’m, up!” Adam croaked back, letting his eyes fall shut again, just for a second. His mum had apparently moved on, satisfied with his answer, and Adam took the time to just breathe. It had been late when he’d gotten back last night. Waiting in front of the bookshop had given him exactly nothing except sleep deprivation and the certainty that Fell never slept himself; the light in fell’s flat had still been on when Adam had finally given up around 1 a.m.

With a groan, Adam pushed himself up while next to him, on top of the chest of drawers, his phone buzzed – once, twice, three times – but he ignored it, at least for now. Whatever it was, Adam was positive that he’d need coffee to deal with it.

His parents were both in the kitchen when Adam stumbled in yawning a vague “mornin’” in their general direction and going straight for the coffee pot. Why his mum insisted on waking him up every bloody morning at the crack of dawn even though he had nowhere to be, was beyond Adam, but he had learned that, sometimes, it was easier not to argue if he wanted to keep the peace in the family. Not that they fought a lot. Adam just felt as if his parents liked to ignore the fact that Adam was almost 18 instead of 8, that he was going to go to university soon, and that he was, for all intents and purposes, legally an adult in just a few short days. The ship of bedtimes and curfews had long sailed, he found.

On the table, his phone buzzed again, drawing a barely audible sigh from his dad as he turned another page of his newspaper.

The Them

Pepper: Wouldnt mind a sugar daddy right abo…

Warlock

Morning. Wanna hang out today? My dads…

A jolt of excitement went through Adam, working better than any amount of coffee in the world, and it took him three tries to unlock his phone so he could answer Warlock, not even looking at the mess that was ‘the Them’ group chat.

Warlock

Morning. Wanna hang out today? My dads out so you could come by and we could play video games or something

Adam

Sounds wicked. I just woke up but I could probs be there in an hour or 2

Warlock

Take your time. Sorry if I woke u

Adam

You didnt. My mum did. Shes obsessed with sleeping schedules or smth

Adam

Or maybe she just hates me

“For God’s sake, Adam, would you put that away while we’re at the table?”

Adam’s thumb hovered over the screen for second as he glanced up at his dad who was scowling at the phone in Adam’s hand, before hitting the little arrow that would send his answer to Warlock and putting the phone on the table, screen down.

“Sorry, dad.” The phone buzzed but no matter how much Adam wanted to check it, he didn’t. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Whatever you decide to make for yourself,” his dad said, “I need to go to work and so does your mum.”

“There’s still leftovers from last night in the fridge,” his mum added, the question about where he’d been going unsaid but not unheard.

“Thanks, mum.”

“You can also empty the dishwasher when its done.”

“Yes, mum.”

“And don’t forget to feed and walk Dog.”

“I know, mum.” It was hard to keep the sigh out of his voice but Adam had practice and his mum was too busy going through her handbag to notice, anyway. Adam took another sip of his coffee, watching her as she cursed under her breath and hurried out of the room.

Adam’s phone buzzed.

The Them

Brian: Wouldnt we all

Warlock

She sounds like a character. Let me know when youll come by we can have breakfast if u want

Adam

Breakfast sounds great!

Adam

Hey, can I bring my dog?

Warlock

Course. I love dogs

Adam

Your dad wont mind?

Warlock

Nah

Warlock

Hes not in

Warlock

I think hes seeing someone and keeping it a secret

Adam

How so?

Warlock

Caught him sneaking out of the house wearing his best clothes and he took some cake we had in the fridge and the good wine with him

Warlock

Ergo date

Adam

Makes sense

Adam

Ill be there in 30 min


	4. Chapter 4

The bed was soft and warm and smelled of black tea and honey and life and _Aziraphale_ , and Crowley had never felt more at home. He was alone, the faint sounds of turning pages and a pumping heart coming from the next room, making Crowley smile – he wondered if it was safe to come out.

Crowley had never actually stayed the whole night at the bookshop, had always made his excuses before it got too close to dawn or, more often, let Aziraphale make them for him, and now that he knew what it felt like, now that he had gotten a taste of what _could be_ , it was hard to forget. It was even harder, now, to leave it behind, knowing he would not get it back, knowing Aziraphale wouldn’t let him. He was so good at keeping Crowley at arm’s length, it was actually quite impressive. Frustrating, sure, but impressive nonetheless, and it wasn’t like Crowley didn’t expect it. He had learned the steps of the dance and adjusted his pace. This, however – this was different. This was new. The melody had changed and suddenly he was off-rhythm and off-beat, stumbling over his own feet, trying to get back into the flow of the movements.

In the next room, Crowley could hear Aziraphale making tea and munching on some biscuits, the normalcy of it all a painful reminder that they were not the same.

Sometimes, Crowley thought, Aziraphale forgot that Crowley was not human, or maybe he sugar-coated the truth for himself – the truth being that Crowley was 600 years old, the truth being that Crowley drank blood to survive, the truth being that Crowley was what every half-respectable dictionary called a monster.

Sometimes, Crowley thought, Aziraphale might love him back the way Crowley loved him.

Other times, Crowley thought, Aziraphale barely tolerated him but refrained from a staking out of politeness.

The kettle clicked and Crowley forced himself to sit up. The bedroom was, in fact, almost completely dark, the only window going out into the alleyway between this and the next building, too narrow to let in the sun. The rest of the flat should, if Crowley wasn’t completely mistaken or the laws of nature had changed overnight, also be doused in shadows after noon.

It was 1 o’clock.

“You’re awake!” Aziraphale exclaimed as soon as he saw Crowley standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

“Yep,” Crowley answered, popping his ‘p’ and letting his eyes wander. He should be safe to move around. The flat looked different in daylight, the edges smoother and the colours brighter, but it was still as comfortable and cosy as ever.

“I do hope you slept okay,” Aziraphale said, his words more rushed than usually, betraying the calm he was putting on, “Oh, and Warlock called.” He pointed towards the couch where Crowley’s phone was still lying. “I think he’s worried about you.”

“Shit.” He’d completely forgotten about Warlock. No. No that wasn’t quite true. He’d forgotten to tell the kid that he’d be staying out. Of course, Warlock could handle himself and if he couldn’t, Anathema, Newt, and Madam Tracy were just a staircase away, but still. “Shit,” Crowley muttered again, picking up his phone – three missed calls.

Warlock

Hey dad u ok?

Warlock

Dad?

Warlock

Dad where are u?

Warlock

I get your 600 and all and you can do what you want but it’s the middle of the day and youre still not back and im getting worried

Crowley

Sorry fell asleep, just woke up. Im fine. Im safe. Ill be home tonight

“I – I should get back. Make sure he’s alright.”

Aziraphale stilled in his chair, looking at him in disbelief. “And how, _exactly_ , are you planning on doing that?” he asked, waving his hand towards the window.

“I don’t know!” Crowley said, throwing his arms up, “I’ll figure it out!”

He was missing his trousers. Why the hell was he missing his trousers?

_And where the fuck are my glasses?_

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice came through the frantic noise in his head. “If you go out there, you will die.”

Snapping around, Crowley glared at Aziraphale with everything he had, some small part of him wishing that the other man would show at least some sign of fear but, of course, he didn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Oh, really?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that tone. It’s hardly my fault that –”

“That what? What’s not your fault? That I stayed? ‘Cause it was your bloody idea!”

“Crowley!”

“I’m sorry, was that something we weren’t supposed to talk about?” Crowley snapped, no longer able to keep the tremble and bitterness out of his voice.

“You are getting completely off track,” Aziraphale said, somehow sounding both incredibly petulant and way too calm for the situation, “I merely meant that you cannot possibly be thinking of going out there, because it will kill you!”

“And why would you care?” Crowley asked, stalking closer.

“Because I care about you, you idiot!” For a second, time stood still. Both Aziraphale and Crowley froze in place, staring at each other, and it became clear that, whatever Aziraphale had wanted to say, that had not been it. And yet.

“I care about you,” Aziraphale repeated, like a confession, a secret never to be told but now that it was, impossible to take back.

All the fight had left Crowley, swooshing out like air from a balloon, leaving him wrinkly and flappy and weak. “Angel.”

Aziraphale Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Crowley, we can’t.”

How had he never heard the regret before, Crowley wondered. Aziraphale was so full of it. Regret and guilt and fear.

“I know.”

“I won’t let you kill yourself.”

Crowley shook his head, taking another step closer to Aziraphale, slower this time, more careful. “I won’t,” he promised.

Aziraphale wasn’t moving away, allowing Crowley to close the gap between them to nothing more than a few inches, the air between the filled with a kind of electricity that set off sparks in Crowley’s brain and made his stomach do summersaults.

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath, his eyes wide and filled with fear as he whispered, “I do care about you, greatly.” 

“’s nice to know.”

“I’m sorry.” Oh, and there was so much in that little word, so many years of sneaking around and hiding in the dark and always, always looking over his shoulder and fearing this night was the last one.

“Me too.”

_I wish it was different._

_I wish we were safe to be whatever we wanted to be._

_I wish I could love you freely._

Aziraphale stared up at Crowley, straight into his eyes, the beautiful blue filled with fear and longing alike, as he slowly reached up and the knuckles of his hand stroked Crowley’s cheek, tenderly and trembling, the touch stripping Crowley bare and leaving him raw and wanting. There were no words, nothing that could have expressed the storm of emotions brewing inside Crowley’s heart.

Instead, he took Aziraphale’s hand with his own and carefully pulled it from his cheeks towards his mouth, pressing a kiss against the soft and warm skin.

“I’ll wait till late afternoon or something,” he whispered, not daring to look away from Aziraphale’s eyes, afraid that if he did, if he so much as blinked, it would all go away, “More shadows, then. I can burrow some of your clothes. And an umbrella.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and Crowley could hear the rhythmic beating of his heart, just a little bit faster than usual, and he could smell the sweat, crisp and salty, and when Aziraphale spoke, his voice sounded faint. “Anything you need, my dear.”

“Cheers.”

* * *

Warlock’s invitation to Adam had not been what one might refer to as a well-thought-out plan. It hadn’t even been a concrete idea. A vague notion, perhaps. An impulsive feeling. If Warlock had spent more than half a second on that feeling before following it, he would have remembered that his dad was a Vampire. Not that he’d forgotten, _exactly_ , something like that was hard to forget, after all, it had might have just sort of slipped his mind for a moment, there, and anyway, that wasn’t the point. His dad was a Vampire, no big deal, moving on. The blood, now, that was a different story. How did one go about explaining a supply of blood bags in one’s fridge?

Long story short, one didn’t. One took all blood bags and carried them downstairs into one’s quasi-aunt’s apartment to put them into _her_ fridge, preferably without said quasi-aunt noticing anything, which she hadn’t, so all was well.

And then Adam had announced that he was in front of the building.

In near 18 years, Warlock had never really invited anyone over, had never really had anyone to invite over, but, he found, it really wasn’t that hard – they made pancakes for breakfast and ate them sitting on the kitchen floor, listening to music, they played Mario Cart, ate crisps, drank coke, and watched cat videos together, they talked about Doctor Who and Marvel and laughed until their bellies hurt while Dog ran around there legs barking excitedly, and Warlock was almost able to stop worrying about his dad.

Almost.

Warlock

I get youre 600 and all and you can do what you want but it’s the middle of the day and youre still not back and im getting worried

Dad

Sorry fell asleep, just woke up. Im fine. Im safe. Ill be home tonight

Letting out a breath of relief, Warlock lowered his phone.

_He’s fine_ , he told himself, _he’s safe. He’ll be home tonight._

“You okay?”

Warlock looked at Adam who met his gaze, brows furrowed, and concern written on his face.

“Yeah,” Warlock answered, raising his phone for Adam to see, “Just checking in with dad. Making sure he’s okay.”

Adam’s frown deepened. “Why wouldn’t he be?” he asked.

_Because it’s broad daylight outside and it could kill him_ , Warlock didn’t say, no matter how true it was.

“No reason, really,” he said, “I just worry about him. He’s all I’ve got.”

“What about your mum?”

_Killed by Vampires while giving birth to me._

“Never met her. ‘s just me and dad.” This was the point where the pity seeped in, the deep felt sympathy for the boy that grew up without a mother, except – Adam didn’t look pitying. Attentive and, perhaps, a little bit curious, but not pitying.

“Your dad’s pretty cool from what I’ve heard,” was all Adam said, smiling softly.

“The coolest – but don’t tell him I said that. It’ll go to his head.”

Adam pressed his lips together and made a zipping motion with his hand. It was such a simple thing, a little bit silly and a little bit childish, and Warlock couldn’t help but laugh. He was odd one, Adam. He was also a good one.

“What about your aunts and uncles?”

“We’re not actually related,” Warlock answered, “They just live downstairs. You can meet them if you want. Anathema’s pretty chill, and aunt Tracy makes the best cakes. My uncles are weird but they care about me, so…” Warlock trailed off. It was hard to explain, a family like his. What was he supposed to say? Dad was friends with Anathema great-great-great-great-something-something-aunt and promised to look after her ancestors when she was burned for being a witch? Dad slept with a guy in the 60s who turned out to be a Sergeant in the Werewolf Rebellion Army? Dad went into a special kind of brothel and made friends with the girl he was paying to drink from?

_Better not._

“Again,” Adam said, a smile playing around his lips, “They’re all pretty cool from what I’ve heard.”

“I guess they are.” They were. Warlock loved his family, as strange and annoying as they were sometimes. He just wished it was easier. “Hey, how’d you feel about going out for a bit?” Warlock asked, hoping to move the conversation along and away from his family, “We can have dinner with my cool aunts and uncles when we get back?”

Adam grinned. “I’d feel pretty good about that.”

Dog, it seemed, also liked the idea. The little mongrel was jumping up and down as soon as they stepped out of the front door of the building and immediately shot off to chase the birds and squirrels when they reached the park. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, and the paths were filled with people – friends and couples and families, all taking a walk or having a picnic or playing football, laughter sounding through the air and mixing with the songs of the birds, and Warlock and Adam in the middle of it all, the centre of life.

* * *

He was wearing one of Aziraphale’s coats, too big and too beige, but it did its job in shielding Crowley from the setting sun as he made his way back to Mayfair. The scent of the blond was fogging Crowley’s senses, sweet and addictive.

_I care about you, greatly._

The words still echoed through his mind. He’d known – of course, he’d known – but there was a difference between knowing something in the privacy of your heart and having it lain out in front of in plain language and words so fragile they might shatter into a million little pieces if they were not handled with care. Crowley had known, but now that Aziraphale had said it out loud, he would never be able to unknow, to forget. In a way, that made it infinitely harder, but it was a pain that Crowley welcomed.

_I wish I could love you freely._

Despite the coat and the umbrella, the sun burned, and Crowley was glad when he could step into the safety of his house, taking off his sunglasses and closing the umbrella but keeping on the coat. It was Aziraphale’s favourite.

The apartment was empty when Crowley opened the door. Dirty dishes sat in the sink and empty cans of cokes on the coffee table and – was that the smell of a _dog_?

Crowley wrinkled his nose, concentrating on everything that usually wasn’t there and – yep. That was a dog. And something else, _someone_ else, someone vaguely familiar but who Crowley couldn’t, for the undeath of him, place. He also noticed that all the blood was gone from the fridge.

“Huh. That’s weird,” he said to himself, except, it wasn’t, was it? If Warlock had invited someone over, of course he’d want to get rid of any incriminating evidence first, and blood in the fridge was, quite possibly, the first item on that list. Still. Crowley needed to have dinner. Placing Aziraphale’s coat onto his bed on the way out, he walked downstairs to Anathema’s and Newt’s flat, hoping that Warlock had simply stored the blood bags in their fridge instead of…somewhere else that Crowley would rather not think about.

“Hi, dad!”

Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses. There was Warlock, sitting at the kitchen table with Anathema and Newt and Tracy and Shadwell and – Crowley blinked again – Adam Young.

“Hi.”

The prodigy of the Order and what appeared to be his dog were in the midst of what might have been the biggest ragtag supernatural family of London, eating pizza.

“Oh, this is Adam,” Warlock said, pointing at the boy, “Adam, my dad.”

“Hello, Mr. Crowley.”

“Just –” Crowley cleared his throat. “Just Crowley’s fine.”

Being in the same room as a Hunter, even a Hunter in training, was not what Crowley would consider a good time. Adam’s presence made him uneasy. No doubt, the boy had all kind of weapons on him, stakes and knifes and holy water and everything that could make Crowley’s existence very uncomfortable. His and everyone else’s in this room. A silver cross dangled around Adam’s neck, reflecting the last sunbeams falling through the window, and Crowley noticed Newt shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Is everything okay?” Warlock asked, lowering his fork and watching Crowley with knitted brows. The boy always knew when something was wrong.

“Yep,” Crowley answered, popping his ‘p’ and pulling his mouth into something he hoped resembled a smile, “All good. Just came to pick up my dinner.” He cast a meaningful glance towards Anathema but feared it didn’t come through what with his sunglasses and all. Still, she seemed to have understood.

“Of course, I’ll get it for you.” The Witch disappeared towards the kitchen and once again Crowley was grateful to have such a good friend in her.

“Why don’t you join us?” Newt asked, gesturing towards the empty chair at the head of the table. The empty chair that stood directly in the sunlight. Crowley would have liked nothing better than smack the Wolf upside the head, but that would have meant moving out of the shadow that was protecting him right now and, well, that just wasn’t worth the pain.

“Nah,” he answered instead, “Got some work I need to get done.”

“Oh. Okay.” It seemed like Newt hadn’t even realised why Crowley couldn’t join them. Not that Crowley blamed him, exactly. That cross was pretty big and pretty silvery and Newt was sitting right next to it.

Awkward silence settled over them but thankfully Anathema re-emerged from the kitchen in that moment, holding a Sexy Hexy tote bag in her hand.

“Here you go,” she said, handing the bag to Crowley who accepted it with a silent nod. Peering inside, he saw his blood along with some leftover pizza and a new bottle of wine.

“Cheers.” Moving carefully, Crowley moved backwards towards the door. “Don’t stay out too long, Warlock,” he told his son who rolled his eyes but agreed that, no, he wouldn’t stay out too long. “Nice to meet you, Adam.”

“You too, Mr. – I mean, Crowley.”

Head spinning lightly from everything that had been happening in just one short day, Crowley stumbled up the stairs and shut himself into his bedroom. He wrapped Aziraphale’s coat around his shoulders, sat cross-legged on his bed, and began to drink his blood, careful not to spill anything on the beige fabric. At least, he thought, he now had a very reason to go back to the bookshop sooner rather than later.

* * *

It wasn’t late, exactly, when Warlock entered the flat, but his dad was still waiting for him in the kitchen, looked somewhat concerned. Adam and Dog had left with the promise to come back the next day and they’d made plans to have a joined birthday party on Sunday – for some reason he was very evasive about, Adam was already otherwise occupied on Saturday, their actual birthdays.

“I didn’t stay out too long,” Warlock immediately argued when his dad’s pale eyes landed on him.

His dad shook his head but didn’t elaborate on why he looked like somewhat had declared the end of the world.

“Is everything okay?” Warlock repeated the question from earlier, even if he already knew that it wasn’t.

Dad smiled. Just like before it looked horribly fake, strained and thin and pained.

“So,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair but his shoulders remained tense, “Adam, huh?” Warlock could tell that his dad was trying for his usual teasing but somehow it came out wrong.

“Dad,” he sighed.

“D’you like him?”

“Dad!”

His dad raised his hands in surrender. “Just asking.”

“Can you not?”

There it was again. The concern. Without his sunglasses, his dad’s eyes always betrayed his every emotion, hundreds of years of history written on his face and told by the hazel-brown of his irises that always held a golden tinge, but usually he pretty good at masking it up. Now, however, something was different. His dad looked at him with sorrow and fear.

“What’s wrong?” Warlock asked, taking the seat across from his dad who shook his head, “Dad?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” his dad answered. It sounded like a lie. His dad never really lied to him.

“You’d tell me, right? If you were in trouble?”

“I’m not in trouble, Warlock,” his dad answered, and even though Warlock believed him, there was something his dad wasn’t saying, “Why don’t you tell me about Adam?”

Against his will, Warlock’s cheeks grew hot. “Daaad,” he whined.

Some of the concern faded from the Vampire’s eyes and he smiled faintly. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know.” And he did. Despite how difficult his dad could be, sometimes, he never let Warlock forget how much he cared for him. “I love you, too, dad.”

The thing was, he wanted to talk about Adam. He wanted to tell his dad about how special Adam was, and the Them, about how happy he was to have found friends.

“We met at a party,” Warlock found himself saying, “He and his friends. Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale. They’re brilliant. I really like them. And Adam…” Warlock trailed off.

He felt awkward talking about his little crush to his dad. Sometimes he forgot how old his dad really was, and how fleeting his own life was compared to that. Sometimes he forgot that his dad would be alive long after he, Warlock, had died. Growing up, struggling with school, falling in love for the first time, all that must have appeared so tiny and insignificant to someone who had lived through the Renaissance, watched empires rise and fall, and had been best pals with Leonardo da Vinci and William Shakespeare.

“I like him,” Warlock muttered, fixing his gaze on the scratches on the table he had etched in there with a pair of scissors when he’d been a kid. His face felt as if it was on fire. “We’re going swimming tomorrow.”

His dad remained silent for so long that Warlock was forced to look up, regretting it almost as soon as he had done so. His dad was grinning now – no, no he was smirking. A dirty, suggestive, meaningful smirk.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“DAD!”

Cackling, his dad stood up from the table and walked towards the kitchen, leaving Warlock to his embarrassment and mortification.

_At least_ , he thought, _dad seems to have cheered up a bit_.


	5. Chapter 5

Aziraphale had barely slept, his mind circling round and round and round and always coming back to the day before. Letting Crowley stay the night had been a mistake. Except it didn’t feel like one. Aziraphale had never felt so happy, so settled, so calm, as when he had known that his Vampire was just a room away, sleeping safely and peacefully among the cream coloured sheets of Aziraphale’s bed. He craved it. The feeling of knowing Crowley was there, with him and choosing to stay.

Choices.

He wanted Crowley to make that choice.

He wanted himself to make that choice.

It was a choice that neither of them could make. A choice that didn’t exist. They were enemies, supposed to be enemies, but somehow they had crossed that abyss and now stood side by side on that narrow bridge that threatened to break apart and take them down with it. It would be a long way down.

Adam was there now, in the bookshop, reading through a book on the Order’s history since tomorrow he would be part of it. Tomorrow, Aziraphale would lead Adam to the Order’s headquarters. Tomorrow, Adam would step in front of the High Council and swear his loyalty and drink from the goblet filled with Vampire blood. It would make him strong, stronger than humanly possible, it would make him durable and fast and powerful, and it would burn through his veins like fire, it would change him like it had changed Aziraphale, it would make him want and more and more. The Council members would tell him the story of Good and Bad, of Black and White, of Right and Wrong, and Adam would believe them like Aziraphale had believed them, and the boy that was sitting in the bookshop right now, the boy that went to the park with his friends and his Dog, the boy that laughed and cried and loved, that boy would die and become something else, and by the time Adam would realise what was happening, it might be too late.

_Adam should have a choice_.

Crowley’s words reverberated through Aziraphale’s mind over and over again, becoming stronger, louder, more insistent, and Aziraphale – Aziraphale agreed.

Adam should have a choice.

Decision made, Aziraphale walked up to the table Adam was sitting at with purpose and confidence, opening his mouth to tell Adam everything he needed to know before the initiation ceremony the next day.

And then everything went pear-shaped.

The bell jingled as the door to the bookshop was pushed open and four members of the High Council walked in.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel called out, beaming brightly as if they were old friends, which they technically were except Aziraphale hadn’t felt that friendship in a very long time.

“Gabriel,” he greeted the other man before turning to the others, “Sandalphon. Michael. Uriel. What – What an honour.” He also didn’t feel particularly honoured right now.

“Is that the boy?” Michael asked, looking at Adam who sat frozen at the table.

“Yes. Yes. Adam.” Aziraphale’s mouth was awfully dry and he couldn’t stop his hands from fiddling with the hem of his waistcoat.

“Hello,” Adam said, looking from Aziraphale to the visitors and back to Aziraphale.

“Young man,” Gabriel said, “I am very much looking forward to your initiation tomorrow. I have heard many good things about you. Very promising things. I’m sure you will serve us well.” He glanced at Aziraphale as if to say _unlike some others_ , before turning his full attention back to the boy, “But for now, I’m afraid we need a private word with your mentor.”

Adam shot a questioning glance towards Aziraphale who nodded encouragingly. Whatever was about to happen, it was not something Adam should see or hear.

“Go out and enjoy the day with your friends,” Aziraphale told Adam, watching as the boy assembled his belongings before rushing out of the shop, “Now,” he said to the others after the door had closed behind Adam, “What can I do for you?”

“A creature of interest which has been in our custody for the past few days has escaped,” Uriel explained, “You wouldn’t happen to know something about that, would you?”

The very blood in Aziraphale’s veins turned to ice. “Why would I know anything about that?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Because you have been working with the enemy. Again,” Sandalphon sneered.

Gabriel stepped forward, his plastic-surgery smile firmly in place. “We know, Aziraphale” he said, “We know about your –” Gabriel pulled a grimace, obviously looking for the right word. “ _Association_ ,” he finally settled, taking a moment to let his disgust come through before continuing, “—with the Vampire Crowley. I did not think you would be foolish enough to make the same mistake twice but…here we are.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to defend himself, maybe, to deny the accusations raised against him, to say something. Anything. But no words would come. His hands felt clammy and it took all his effort to stop them from shaking.

“I’m sure no blame falls on you,” Michael chipped in, her smile cold and calculating, “Vampires are insidious creatures.”

“What did he promise you, Aziraphale?” Gabriel asked, “Eternal life? Power? Money? Because we can give you all of that. Everything you want. If you bring us Crowley and the boy tomorrow evening in time for the ceremony.”

“Of course,” Uriel added, “We would expect you to return to active duty afterwards. Just for a while. Just so we can be sure you can be trusted.”

“O – of course,” Aziraphale forced out, swallowing thickly.

The false smile on Gabriel’s lips grew wider and he clapped his hands. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“We will see you tomorrow, Aziraphale,” Michael said.

“Tomorrow. Yes.”

Distantly, he was aware of the others leaving. The bell chimed as the door opened and fell closed. The faint smell of cologne hung in the air, making him nauseous.

Something had escaped. Aziraphale’s mind immediately jumped to Eric. Good for him, he supposed. Not that it would do any good. Not now. Not anymore. Not when they knew.

Forcing his breath and heart into submission, Aziraphale made his way to the phone on shaky legs. He had to warn Crowley.

_And then what?_

There was nothing they could do. The Order would kill them if Aziraphale didn’t comply with their orders. Of course, they would kill Crowley regardless.

_This is all my fault._

He had been careless. He had let his guard down. If Crowley died now, it would be because of Aziraphale and his foolish heart.

_If I’d just been more careful –_

But that was wishful thinking. It was too late.

Taking another deep breath, Aziraphale picked up the receiver and dialled the one number he knew by heart. It was time he made a choice.

* * *

Adam had never seen Mr. Fell look scared. The fact that these people, whoever they had been, had sent the man into such a panic did not win them any brownie points with Adam. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to give them a piece of his mind. They’d been with the Order, sure, but who did they think they were, upsetting Mr. Fell like that?

Somehow, the whole thing made him doubtful. For two years he’d been training to join the Order now, had read old books and scrolls on monsters and patrolled the parks with all kinds of weapons, all so he could make a difference, change the world, save lives. The Order was the good guys. But what good guys teamed up four on one to have a simple conversation? If that’s even what they had done.

Adam had to resist the urge to turn around and walk back to check on Fell, instead he kept going forward, not quite sure where his feet were carrying him but also not surprised when he found himself in Mayfair, right in front of the building Warlock lived in.

Warlock.

Would he be able to still keep whatever it was they had once he’d been initiated into the Order as a full member? Would he still be able to see his friends the way he did now? Looking at Fell and his lack of friends made Adam think that, no, he probably wouldn’t. But was that worth it? Was that a price he was willing to pay?

_I’m sure you will serve us well_ , the American guy had said. It didn’t exactly nothing to reassure Adam.

Adam

Hey im done sooner than I thought. Mind if I come over rn?

Warlock

Sure

Warlock

Youre already standing outside arent u?

Adam

Yeah

Warlock

Come up then

Warlock’s home was nice in a sleek and modern way and yet there was something weird about it. Adam had noticed the day before how dark it had been, all the thick, black curtains drawn closed. Today was no different. It was warm, at least, temperature wise. Everything seemed cold, impersonal safe for the things that obviously belonged to Warlock, as if Warlock’s dad hadn’t really lived here before his son had arrived, as if he still wasn’t really living there. It wasn’t uncomfortable, really, just strange, and Adam had learned to be suspicious of strange but then, what were the chances that his friend’s father was some evil monster? Probably not very high.

Warlock looked like he’d just gotten out of the shower, his hair still wet. He was wearing a Captain America shirt and skinny jeans, his feet bare and his toenails painted blue. He was cute. Some part of Adam still struggled with the idea of falling for a guy, but he was getting there, and Warlock was an easy person to fall for. Funny and bolt and unafraid.

“Come in. Give me ten minutes to get ready then we can get something to eat.”

Adam waited while Warlock vanished into his bedroom, looking around the flat. The curtains. It bothered him, somehow. Why would anyone want to keep their flat permanently dark?

To his right was a hallway, the walls looked like bare stones, and a single, closed, black door let another room. A door which was ripped open as Adam stared at it and out stumbled Warlock’s dad, quite literally.

“Hey Adam,” he said, visibly struggling to stay upright.

He was wearing black trousers that clung to his legs and probably didn’t make walking any easier, his equally black shirt hung open, showing a narrow, pale chest, he held a tartan umbrella in one hand and over his arm he had slung a big, beige piece of fabric that might have been a blanket or might have been a coat, in his hand he held a shoe, the other one was on his foot, a pair of sunglasses was perched on his head. He looked as if he’d only just stumbled out of bed and was already late for everything.

“Bye, Adam,” he said, staggering towards the door leading to the staircase.

Adam blinked.

“Ready.” Warlock came out of his room, hair dried and feet clad in shoes. “You okay?”

“Your dad just left,” was all Adam felt able to say.

“What?!”

Adam jumped slightly at the shock in Warlock’s voice, just for a moment, come and gone again, before his features smoothed over and set into something hard and unreadable.

“He seemed to be in a hurry,” Adam added.

“Come on.” Warlock led them out of the flat. The staircase was empty and silent and dark as they walked down the stairs. “One second.” The other boy pulled out a set of keys and entered the flat of his aunt and uncle, one set of them anyway, and Adam waited outside, wondering what the hell was going on but deciding to just accept it as it was. Family was weird like that, sometimes.

* * *

Out of the things to happen after Aziraphale had called Crowley to tell him about his unexpected visitors, having the Vampire crash through the door of the bookshop in broad daylight, wearing Aziraphale coat and carrying Aziraphale’s umbrella and smoking like anything, was not one of them.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Aziraphale bellowed, striding towards Crowley to pull him fully inside and into the safety of the shadows.

“You said urgent,” Crowley croaked, shedding off the slightly scorched coat. He was giving Aziraphale a look over the rims of his sunglasses that was probably supposed to be all kinds of intimidating but that rather lost its power due to the angry, red blisters all over his face and the fact that he was still holding the tartan umbrella.

“I didn’t mean for you to come over right away.”

“Well, too bad, ‘cause I’m here now.”

That was true enough, Aziraphale supposed. Crowley was here now and there was no way in heaven, hell, or anywhere in between that Aziraphale would let him leave again, while there was still a single sunbeam to be found in London.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, my dear.”

Aziraphale led Crowley into the back of the bookshop, mindful of the way the Vampire winced at even the slightest touch, and gently pushed him down into the armchair that was usually reserved for Aziraphale and Aziraphale only. He rushed upstairs to get the last blood bag from his fridge, along with some regular bandages and creams, and a bowl of cool water and a cloth. Aziraphale was well-versed with Vampire biology, had studied it for years and learned even more ever since he’d met Crowley but he had never seen injuries as bad as the ones waiting to be treated downstairs and it worried him. He hated seeing Crowley in pain.

“I’m fine,” the Vampire protested weakly while Aziraphale started cleaning the burns on his face, “Gimme some blood and I’ll be right as rain.”

It was different, this time, watching Crowley drink. Hungrier.

Aziraphale had known Crowley was a Vampire since the moment they’d met, but only now did he begin to understand why Vampires were always feared across time and space – the way Crowley ripped into the bag, draining it in a matter of seconds, an animalistic growl rumbling through his throat…he was a predator and he was dangerous and by all intents and purposes Aziraphale should have been afraid but the thing was…he wasn’t. He trusted Crowley.

It was obvious that one bag of blood wouldn’t be enough to heal Crowley completely but must have helped something because Crowley relaxed slightly into the cushions of the armchair, almost assuming his usual trademark sprawl.

“Will you need more?” Aziraphale asked, watching in wonder as the worst burns slowly started to change before his eyes, aging and scabbing over.

“Later,” Crowley answered, his voice, too, was almost back to normal, “Tell me what happened first. With Gabriel.”

Aziraphale did.

Crowley seemed as surprised as Aziraphale had been to hear about Eric’s escape, which ruled out the possibility that he had anything to do with it, and where Aziraphale had panicked at the Order’s threats, Crowley got angry.

“I won’t let them take you,” he snarled, his teeth still sharp, dried blood clinging to his lips, “We could leave. New Zealand. No one would find us.”

But as tempting as that might have sounded, Aziraphale couldn’t just run away. Not when Adam needed him.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, his hand hovering over Crowley’s, “I am more concerned about you than me. They will kill you Crowley.”

“Not if I have any say in that.”

Aziraphale gulped. It was ridiculous, of course, but – “Then we will think of something. A plan.”

“A plan,” Crowley echoed. His eyes, still golden and inhuman, turned distant as if he was far, far away in his thoughts, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire him, his clever Vampire, who fought so bravely even now when they weren’t even sure what they were fighting against. “I might have an idea,” Crowley said slowly, “Not sure if it’ll work though.”

“Talk me through it,” Aziraphale requested.

While Crowley explained his idea, Aziraphale kept a careful eye on his injuries. The one bag wasn’t enough, in fact, it was far from enough. Every shift, every little movement, seemed to cause Crowley pain, though he did his best to hide it, and his features were still sharp and severe, his teeth and eyes somehow reminding Aziraphale of those of a snake.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked and realised he’d been staring rather obviously while Crowley had, no doubt, been waiting for some sort of response.

“That is all very well,” he said, “But we won’t be putting any of that into action if you can’t even breathe without wincing from pain.”

“I’m fine.”

“You need blood, Crowley.”

“Of course, I need blood,” Crowley snapped, though there was little bite in his voice, “But there’s none left in the fridge and the nearest brothel was closed by your pals in the Order months ago. So.” He flapped his hands, making clear that, for him, the matter was closed.

For Aziraphale, it wasn’t. “You need blood, Crowley,” he repeated, slower and more urgently, hoping Crowley would understand what he was getting at.

“Yes, we’ve established that but I don’t see how –” Crowley paused, his eyes growing wide as he stared at Aziraphale, “No,” he said, “Aziraphale, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” Crowley exclaimed, making it sound like a complete sentence before adding, “I won’t drink your blood, angel.”

“Why not?”

“You know why,” Crowley sneered. Aziraphale was pushing him, he knew, but he didn’t see any other way to get to the other end of this conversation, not with the little time they had left to do so.

“You are being unreasonable,” he told the Vampire as calmly as possible.

“Unrea – unreasonable – _I’m_ being unreasonable?” If possible, Crowley’s face hardened even further, loosing all traces of humanity that had been left, twisting into a grotesque mask filled with rage as he pushed himself out of the armchair and stalked towards Aziraphale, driving him further and further back until he hit one of the bookshelves. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, angel,” Crowley hissed, baring his teeth, his hands gripping Aziraphale’s shirt.

By any means, Aziraphale should have been terrified, except he wasn’t. He trusted Crowley.

“Crowley, I –” he began to say, just when the backdoor opened and a group of teenagers walked in, freezing as soon as they saw the scene before their eyes.

“Mr. Fell!”

“Dad?”

* * *

They’d been at the Serpentine before meeting up with the rest of the Them and making their way back to Adam’s, when he had noticed that his keys were missing. He had probably left them at the bookshop in his hurry to get out of there.

“Won’t take long,” he had promised his friends and together they had made a small detour to Soho.

Predictably, the shop was closed.

Adam retrieved the key from behind the loose brick and opened the door – two years of training had not prepared him for what he saw in the cosy, little backroom of boo shop.

Fell was backed up against a shelf, looking defiantly up at the creature standing in front of him, a creature covered blisters, its face contorted in fury, malicious yellow eyes glowering, the sharp teeth mere inches away from Fell’s face.

“Mr. Fell!” Adam cried out, pulling his stake, ready to attack.

“Dad?” Warlock was standing next to Adam staring at the creature and as much as Adam wanted to shove him out of harm’s way, his question made him hesitate. He looked again at the Vampire – skinny, black jeans and a black shirt, bright red, disheveled hair – it was, indeed, Adam’s dad, Crowley.

The two man froze, heads turning towards the group of teenagers standing in the door of the backroom. There was something incredibly wrong with this picture, Adam found. Fell didn’t look scared. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his shoulders were relaxed, and even now that the Vampire was distracted, he made no attempt to shove it away.

“Mr. Fell?” Adam asked, feeling awfully unsure of himself.

Mr. Fell and the Vampire parted slowly and was it just Adam or did Fell look disappointed?

“What – what’s going on?” He readjusted his grip on the stake in his hand, the familiarity of it grounding him, giving him strength.

Moving surprisingly fast, Fell moved back from the shelf and in front of the Vampire. “Adam”, he said placatingly, “I understand that this must be ever so confusing for you, but I assure you, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything.”

It did exactly nothing to calm Adam down, if anything he was even more ready to charge in and slay the Vampire for playing with Fell’s mind like that.

“Dad,” Warlock muttered next to him. He didn’t at all seem surprised that his dad was a Vampire – _why would he be?_ Adam thought, _that’s not exactly something you miss_ – “You’re hurt.”

The Vampire shrugged. “Little sunburn.”

It looked like a lot more than just a little sunburn. The monster was swaying on it’s feet, obviously struggling to stay vertical. Fell must have noticed it too because he redirected all his attention to the creature behind him and led it towards the armchair with careful, almost tender touches that Adam thought were very unbecoming of a creature of the night.

“Adam,” Fell said without looking away from the Vampire, “Please close the door. I rather think we need to talk.”

Adam rather thought he agreed.


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale had this endearing quirk of turning even the shortest, one-sentence stories into a journey of suspense, wrapping it up with a nice, little morale at the end, and presenting it with a bow on top. Which was why it was all the sadder now, that Crowley completely missed the retelling of _their_ story. Their story which he liked to think of as a better rendition of Romeo and Juliet. No tragedy. No death. Truth be told, Crowley had never been a fan of Will’s gloomy ones, and that particular play was the worst, closely followed by Hamlet. Why it was so bloody popular, was beyond him.

He had lied to Warlock earlier. Maybe that shouldn’t bother him as much as it did, being a Vampire and all, but the thing was, Father Christmas and the Tooth fairy put aside, he had never really lied to the boy before. Not outright. Not like that.

He had lied to Aziraphale, too.

It was not just a little sunburn. Walking all way from Mayfair to Soho with nothing but a beige coat and a tartan umbrella to protect him had possibly been the worst idea he had ever had. There was reason why Vampires were nocturnal – the sunlight had the annoying habit of sucking the very lifeforce out of them, and what manifested as blisters and burns, grated so much deeper, all the way down to the twisted remnants of their souls. And it hurt.

Through the fog in his mind, Crowley listened to Aziraphale tell Adam about how he had started his training at the tender age of 15, how proud he had been to do Good, how honoured he’d felt when he’d been invited to formally join the Order, and how fast that dream had turned into a nightmare. Crowley knew all that. They’d spent a lot of time, in the beginning, talking about the Order, or rather arguing about it.

Crowley listened to Aziraphale tell Adam about how he’d studied literature at uni and how, one starry night, he had heard sounds coming from the bushes. That had been their beginning. That had been the moment Crowley had drawn new hope. A single act of kindness that had saved his undead existence and, quite possibly, several lives. Crowley knew all that too. He’d been there after all.

Crowley’s mind slipped when Aziraphale began to explain the price that came with joining the Order, but he wasn’t worried. He trusted Aziraphale to give Adam all the facts and let him make his own decision. That was important, he felt, letting Adam decide.

The fall and rise of Aziraphale’s voice was like a lullaby, the steady rhythm of the words, a warm blanket, and Crowley allowed his eyes to drift shut, just for a moment or two.

_Crowley._

Someone was calling for him.

_Crowley._

Someone was calling for him, calling his name, like a prayer.

“Crowley!”

“’ngel?”

“Oh, thank God,” the voice said, “For a moment I thought –” The voice faltered and Crowley blinked slowly, his eyelids like lead.

“Angel,” he muttered. Aziraphale looked strange. Blurry somehow.

“I’m here, Crowley,” Aziraphale promised, taking his hand, “You need blood, I can help. No arguments.”

Had Crowley felt any less woozy, he would have had a great deal of arguments, but…well…

“Warlock?” he asked instead, looking around the room that seemed empty but also weirdly unsubstantial.

“Is upstairs with his friends,” Aziraphale answered calmly as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“Wh – What are you –”

“I rather like this shirt. I would hate get bloodstains on it.”

“’m not –”

“Yes, you are.” The blond’s voice was strong and fearless, as was his face when he looked at Crowley, who was lost for words. How could Aziraphale just offer himself up like that? Like it was nothing.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, his face, set determination, his neck, so very tempting, his broad shoulders and strong arms and soft belly, and Crowley was weak, so, so incredibly weak for his angel.

“Beautiful.”

Now, as absent-minded comments went, that was, possibly, one of the most inappropriate ones, considering the circumstances.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, “There is a time and a place. Now, drink. We don’t have all day.”

Crowley was weak and Aziraphale was beautiful and so he slowly, achingly, pushed himself up from the armchair, just enough to wrap his arms around Aziraphale, and pressed a gentle kiss to the blond’s neck before letting his teeth pierce the soft skin. Aziraphale gasped and Crowley drank.

* * *

Warlock had barely moved in the last half hour. He was sitting in the flat above the bookshop, away from the others, listening to them talk about Vampires and Werewolves and Witches. Monsters they called them. They discussed the best strategies to kill them like one would discuss chess – particularly deadly chess – like these creatures, these Monsters, weren’t living, breathing beings with families and friends and loved ones that cared for them. As if Warlock’s dad wasn’t one of them.

“He looked bad, down there,” Pepper commented, “I don’t think it would take much, if we have to defend ourselves.”

Painful as it was, it was also true. His dad had looked bad down there, ready to keel over and die. Again. For good this time. The man, Mr. Fell, had assured Warlock that he would take care of his dad, that Warlock should go upstairs with the Them.

“You don’t need to see this,” Mr. Fell had said as if sitting up here without knowing what was happening or if his dad would be okay was any better.

He wasn’t even sure if he could trust Fell. From what Warlock understood, Fell was part of some Order, some cult that hunted and killed the supernatural, and Adam was to be part of it as well, come tomorrow. Warlock had no desire to get anywhere near this Order. Of course, Fell didn’t seem too enthusiastic about them, either. He hadn’t said it of course, not out right, anyway, but it had been there, underneath, in the way his eyes had hardened and become cold, the way his smile had wavered, and his voice had shaken just so.

Warlock hoped that Adam would say no. Fell had said there would be a choice if Adam wanted it, that joining the Order would have consequences, that it wasn’t all as it looked like. Not all Monsters were bad. Not all humans were good. Common sense, if anyone had asked Warlock, he should know, considering he’d grown up in both worlds.

“Is that Vampire really your dad? I mean, really really?” The sudden question broke through Warlock’s musing.

“Brian!” Pepper cried out and slapped her friend’s arm, but still, all four Them turned to stare at Warlock, awaiting his answer.

“He’s not my biological dad, if that’s what you mean,” Warlock answered, feeling both incredibly awkward and incredibly annoyed, “Vampires can’t have biological children.”

“So,” Brian said slowly, “He adopted you.”

“How’d he fill in the paperwork?” Wensleydale asked, squinting through his glasses.

Warlock let out a heavy breath, trying to steady himself, before answering, “He found me when I was a baby. Some Vampires of his old Coven killed my mum while she was giving birth. He saved me.”

“Okay, but –”

“Brian, stop,” Adam cut his friend off, looking at Warlock. There was something unsettling about his gaze, Warlock found, as if Adam was looking into him rather than simply at him.

There was a great deal of things Warlock wanted to ask, a great deal of things Warlock wanted to say, but all speech seemed to have deserted him as he met Adam’s gaze.

And then the door opened and his dad walked in.

“Dad!” In a matter of seconds Warlock had jumped to his feet, crossed the room, and thrown himself at his father, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, little hellspawn.”

He certainly looked better. His face was human again, his eyes returned to their pale brown, and the wounds that had covered his face and hands were gone. Behind him stood Mr. Fell, on his neck, Warlock could see a band aid.

The blond stepped forward, next to Crowley. “Adam,” he said, “Have you made a decision?”

“I have.”

“Then,” Fell continued, “We have a great deal to talk about and not much time to do so.”

* * *

Crowley could still taste the blood on his lips. Aziraphale’s blood. By all means, it shouldn’t have tasted any different from other blood, but it had. It did. Or maybe that was just Crowley’s imagination since he knew where it came from. The place on Aziraphale’s neck where the band-aid covered the bite mark worked like a magnet for Crowley’s gaze, the memory of it, feeling his own teeth break the skin – it stayed with him.

Aziraphale, for his part, seemed unbothered. Smiling and talking like nothing at all had happened, recounting the vague plan which might just get them all out of this alive and unharmed, while Crowley held Warlock in his arms and satisfied himself with looking at Aziraphale. He did that a lot, he knew. Looking. There was so much to see. The white gold of his hair was streaked with silver, the lines around his eyes had grown deeper as the years passed, his body filled out his clothes so perfectly, they may as well have been made for him and him alone.

It hit Crolwey suddenly, how much Aziraphae had aged in the last 25 years, how much he would still age in the years to come. It was the strangest thing, immortality. As if the turn of the earth itself had slowed down. Time was meaningless. Civilisation could rise and fall in the time it took to have a good nap – you woke up and the world had changed but you would still be the same. Crowley would still be same. Aziraphale would not. A hundred years from now, his face would have withered and died, buried underneath a layer of dirt with a gravestone marking its place, while the memory would live on, nothing more than a painful reminder of had been. Not for the first time, Crowley thought about offering his curse to Aziraphale. It was entirely selfish, of course, but sometimes he wished –

But no. Aziraphale would never make that choice. Or would he?

Speaking of choices…

“The sun has set,” Aziraphale was saying now, looking out of the window, “We should hurry.”

_Right. The plan_ , Crowley reminded himself.

They went back to Mayfair to Crowley’s house. He liked that house. He’d bought it after waking up from his century-long nap sometime in the 1990s. Of course, he’d have to leave again, soon. People noticed if one didn’t look a day over 40 for 25 years, and counting. Perhaps he could give it to Anathema and Newt.

The young couple seemed happy enough to open their kitchen to the weird procession of one Vampire, one Vampire Hunter, and five human teenagers, not hesitating when Crowley asked if they could ask Tracy and Shadwell to come up as well. Everyone made grim faces after Crowley and Aziraphale had explained what had happened, not at all liking their prospects. Except for Newt, maybe. Newt also made a grim face but that could have been due to the smoking phone in his hand. The boy really had the worst luck when it came to technology.

“I might have a spell that could help,” Anathema said after a long pause, “Agnes made it just after she met you.” She gave a not towards Crowley. “You must have made quite an impression on her. I’ve been working on it for a while now, trying to make it work. I think I can do it.”

“What kind of spell?” Crowley asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“A protection from sunlight.” Crowlet blinked, not sure he’d understood correctly. “I wouldn’t be permanent, of course,” Anathema added, “But it might give you an hour or two.”

“If all goes according to plan that’s all we need,” Aziraphale considered, glancing at Crowley who nodded.

“Do it.”

It was a risk. If the spell failed, Crowley didn’t think he’d be lucky enough to survive a stroll in daylight twice in a row, but if it didn’t…if it worked…well. It might just be the advantage they needed.

* * *

His lips were sore from all the biting he was doing.

Warlock hated this. Waiting. Not knowing what was happening.

His dad had been clear in his instructions – “hide and stay out of trouble” – but Warlock still felt like there was something more he should be doing.

Half an hour had gone by now, since his dad, Mr. Fell, and Adam had entered the Order’s headquarters to crash the High Council’s meeting.

“We will catch them off guard,” Mr. Fell had argued, although Warlock suspected that the man was just anxious to get the whole business over with.

Warlock could understand that. He felt the same.

On the bright side, Anathema’s spell seemed to be working. Seeing his dad step outside the house, into the sunlight, Warlock had suffered a minor panic attack, expecting him to go up in flames any second, but he hadn’t. Warlock could still see the childish glee in his dad’s eyes as the sun shone down on him, as he grinned at Warlock, as Mr. Fell stared at him in astonishment and fondness. Warlock had always liked magic and always hated himself for doing so. It was bit on the nose, liking magic when your name was Warlock, but seeing that, seeing what Anathema had been able to do, it made him reconsider that, perhaps, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to ask Anathema for some tips and practical lessons. If they all survived this, of course.

She’d gone in too, Anathema and Newt, to sneak down to the basement and check if there were any more poor bastards locked up in the cells.

Looking to his right, Warlock thought he could just make out Pepper’s dark hair behind a hedge some 50 yards away, watching a side entrance to the building. He had no idea where the others were, but he hoped they were okay.

He hoped his dad was okay.

Warlock checked his phone – 13:36.

He kept chewing on his lower lip, praying to whatever entity was out there that it would all work out.

* * *

Crowley had always found the shocked look funny people would get when they realised what he was. He wouldn’t hurt them, usually anyway, But the fear that a few sharp teeth and yellow eyes and shifting facial features could cause – well…he simply couldn’t resist. None of that, however, compared to the sheer terror the High Council members were feeling when he stepped forward underneath the skylight and revealed his true face. Delicious.

The spell Anathema had worked was like nothing Crowley had ever experienced. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. The first step he had taken outside, he had been rendered completely speechless. It tingled and hummed and made him giddy. They’d all been staring at him. Anathema, smiling proudly. Newt, equally proud and disgustingly in love with his girlfriend. Tracy, delighted. Shadwell, as grumpy as ever but possibly relieved, though Crowley couldn’t be sure. The kids, their eyes wide and wonderous. Aziraphale – Crowley had never seen Aziraphale by the light of day before. The sun had reflected off his hair, a bright halo of curls that made him look even more angelic than usual, his smile rivalling the sun, his eyes shining with so many emotions and unshed tears. For a second, just a second, Crowley had been able to forget what was at stake here. And then he’d remembered.

The headquarters of the Order were depressing in the way that tall, old buildings often were. The ceilings were too high, the furniture too pretentious, the paintings too hideous, and everywhere Crowley could almost smell the holier-than-thou attitude. The hall of the Council was no better. A circular room with a massive skylight, the walls lined with stands which vaguely reminded Crowley of courtrooms, and there in the front, the four members of the High Council, holding their meeting.

“What is the meaning of this?” a middle-aged woman with brown hair and cold eyes had asked when Aziraphale had pushed open the double-winged doors and stepped inside, closely followed by Crowley and Adam.

Aziraphale had not answered, instead striding up to the middle of the room, his head held high.

“You’re early, Aziraphale,” then man who Crowley thought was Gabriel had remarked. He had looked pleased, however. Surprised.

“I’ve come to make a deal,” Aziraphale had exclaimed.

“A deal?” Gabriel’s voice had echoed off the walls of the hall.

Aziraphale had nodded. “A deal.”

And then Crowley had stepped forward and allowed his face to shift and the four wankers in front of him had let out a collective gasp and tried to back away in horror.

A hand snaked its way into Crowley’s, plump fingers squeezing his lightly, and Crowley squeezed back in encouragement.

“I have decided that I do not like the terms you have offered me yesterday,” Aziraphale went on, his face stern and beautiful, “I am going to make a counteroffer which you then will accept.”

“A – a counteroffer?”

“Yes, Michael.”

“And what,” the stocky man with almost no hair began, “Could you possibly offer us?”

Aziraphale smiled coldly, almost cruelly, and said, “You will cease to trick people into drinking Vampire blood. You will cease to torture beings which you have captured. You will give fair trials to beings which have broken the law to estimate their guilt. You will, furthermore, leave us alone in the future. In return –” From the ranks a disgruntled and displeased muttering swelled to loud protesting and cried of outrage, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to be bothered. “In return,” he repeated, raising his voice, “We will not report you and your illicit behaviours to any authorities. We will not interfere with your business again. And we will, ourselves, make sure that no crimes by non-human individuals are committed in our immediate environment.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand once more.

_I’m proud of you_ , he wanted to say.

_You’re doing great._

_I love you._

“And what about the boy?” the woman who’d stayed quiet so far, Uriel, spoke up and Adam stepped forward, allowing Crowley to put his free hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“You pride yourselves with being good. You say you’re doing the right thing. You argue that you are protecting this country from evil. I think that’s what you’d like it to be like. I think that’s what it was like, a long time ago. I think you’re wrong,” Adam said, his voice steady and carrying power and confidence. The Council member, Crowley noted, were staring at the boy in awe, hanging on his every word. “If you agree to Mr. Fell’s terms,” Adam continued, “I will join the Order and help you make it into what it’s supposed to be. Something that helps people. Something better.”

Adam’s speech was met with silence, but it was a considering silence, a thoughtful one. Even Crowley was stunned. The way Adam had delivered the words, like he truly believed in them himself, made Crowley want to belief it, too.

“How do we know you won’t break your word?” Michael finally asked. She seemed the most sceptical out of the four, but also the most reasonable.

Hearing his cue, Crowley reached into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper.

“A magically binding contract,” he explained, approaching the stand and handing it to Michael, “You can have your magicians check it but it’s the real thing.”

Still looking somewhat suspicious, Michael unfolded the contract and read, her face not betraying any emotions. She handed the paper to Gabriel and went back to staring at Crowley who met her gaze, happily accepting the challenge.

“Preposterous. Outrages,” the nearly bald man muttered after he had finished reading the contract.

“What is to us stop from executing you right now?” Uriel asked calmly, as if none of this was in any way touching her.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “Then, I suppose, the authorities would learn about the deals you have made with Vampire Covens and Werewolf packs, and the humans you have killed in your line of service.”

The smell of fear in the air was getting stronger. Crowley could see the sweat running down the stocky man’s forehead, he could hear the hearts frantically beating away in their ribcages picking up their speed.

“Now, now,” Gabriel said placatingly, raising his hands, “I’m sure we can find an arrangement that will suit us all.”

“Certainly,” Aziraphale agreed, “All you have to do is sign the contract.”

Aziraphale, Crowley noticed, was also getting nervous. The hand Crowley was holding felt clammy and Aziraphale’s fingers had cramped up so much they would have cut of Crowley’s circulation, if he had any.

_It’s going to be fine_ , Crowley wanted to say and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand.

In his pocket, Crowley’s phone buzzed, signalling that it was two o’clock. If they didn’t hurry, Crowley would end up being barbequed again very soon and the whole operation would have been for nothing.

_It has to be fine_ , he thought, just when the entire High Council stood up from their seats. It looked like they had reached a decision.

* * *

The metallic taste of blood made Warlock wince. He wondered, not for the first time, how his dad could stand it.

It was just past two now. Anathema had said the spell would last an hour, maybe two, what if –

_No_ , Warlock told himself firmly, _he’s alive. He has to be_.

And yet, he couldn’t make his hands stop shaking and he couldn’t keep away the tears that were starting to cloud his vision.

Down by the building, the door opened, and Warlock’s heart stopped.

_Dad!_

It was too far away to see properly, but if Warlock knew anything, then that that human-shaped being, dead or alive, was able to move their hips in such a ridiculously disjointed way as his dad, not without faceplanting and breaking several bones, anyway.

Unable to stop himself, Warlock stepped out if his hiding place and ran down the lawn towards the building the three people exiting it.

“Dad!”

His dad was alive. Well. He wasn’t more dead than he’d already been, at any rate. Something was wrong, though. They had stopped just short of leaving the shadow cast by the building, moving sideways to get away from the doors, and something cold settled inside Warlock. The spell had worn off and they had no way of getting his dad home safely.

“Warlock, dear,” Mr. Fell said as soon as Warlock had joined them, “Please call Madam Tracy. I’m sure she will be able to find us adequate transportation.”

He was holding dad’s hand, Warlock noticed, barely paying attention to anything around them but the Vampire who was pushing himself against the wall of the building, as far into the shadow as he could, but Warlock could also see that it wasn’t enough.

With shaking hands, Warlock pulled out his phone and called Tracy and ten minutes later they drove home with a stolen SUV, his dad completely covered by Mr. Fell’s coat in the backseat.


	7. Five years later

The sun rose over the rooftops of London, glistening in the murky water of the Thames, and luring all the tourists outside to do touristy things like taking photos of pigeons and buses and phone boxes. Somewhere in a busy street in Soho, in a flat above a bookshop, a human and a Vampire lay in bed, not caring one bit for the world outside. The bed sheets were rumpled around their waists, the curtains drawn shut, and the human read a book while the Vampire’s head rested on his bare chest.

“He drew a deep breath, ‘Well, I’m back,’ he said,” Aziraphale finished reading, closing the book and glancing down at Crowley. He smiled.

Crowley was beautiful like this. Relaxed. All the nervous energy usually coursing through the Vampire was gone, his face looked calm and serene, and Aziraphale could feel his own heart stuttering in his chest.

“Angel,” Crowley muttered into Aziraphale’s skin, shuffling closer and Aziraphale started running his fingers through Crowley’s auburn hair, making the Vampire hum in pleasure.

It was quiet in the flat. The noise of the streets did not touch them. And yet, Aziraphale felt restless. They’d celebrated his 50th birthday yesterday. Half a century. Half of which had been spent with Crowley, in one way or another. When Aziraphale looked into a mirror, he could see that the blond of his hair had turned a silver-grey, when Aziraphale moved he could feel the stiffness of his limbs, when Aziraphale read he could feel the strain on his eyes. He was getting old and it made him sad. Not for him, not exactly, but for Crowley.

“I worry,” Warlock had said the previous night, “Dad doesn’t do well on his own.”

Aziraphale had to agree.

He’d thought about it, long and carefully. Crowley had told him of his own transformation years and years ago, of the pain and the agony.

“It’s a curse,” Crowley had said, sounding bitter and regretful.

Aziraphale believed him. Aziraphale also thought he would happily take on any curse if it just meant staying with Crowley.

“Crowley?” he whispered into the silence of the bedroom.

Crowley hummed again, questioning this time. His eyes were closed and he leaned into Aziraphale’s touch like a cat. When Aziraphale didn’t continue immediately, however, Crowley looked up, clearly concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I do love you terribly.”

Some of the concern in Crowley’s pale eyes turned to mischief. “I know,” he said, a teasing smirk pulling on his lips before smoothing out and becoming soft and serious, “I love you too.”

The power behind Crowley’s gaze and words, the raw honesty, still awed Aziraphale. The fact that they were allowed this now, being together without being scared, it was hard to believe sometimes.

Holding on to that feeling, to the knowledge that, no matter what, they would be able to work it out, Aziraphale spoke the words that had been burning on the tip of his tongue for weeks now, “I want you to turn me, Crowley.”

His request was met by stunned silence. Crowley was staring at him, his eyes wide and unreadable.

“Aziraphale –” Crowley finally muttered, sounding pained, but Aziraphale cut him off.

“You won’t change my mind, Crowley. This is my choice.”

Again, it seemed like Crowley needed a moment to find his words. “I won’t try to change your mind,” he finally said, “Just…Angel. Forever is a long time.” The hazel-brown of Crowley’s eyes shimmered golden in the dim lights of the room. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He was. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever been surer of anything in his life. “It’s my choice, Crowley,” he repeated, “And I choose us.”

“You might think differently in a few hundred years,” Crowley warned him, but it sounded half-hearted, like Crowley himself didn’t want to hear his own protests.

Aziraphale couldn’t help it, he smiled. “Perhaps,” he said, “Perhaps not.” He sat up a little straighter, motioning for Crowley to do the same, so they could see eye to eye. “But that’s life, Crowley. We can never know for sure. We have to take risks. We have to make decisions that we might regret later on. But that is later on. Right now, in this very moment, I am making a choice.”

“You choose us,” Crowley whispered, his eyes locked on Aziraphale’s as he raised a hand and laid it on Aziraphale’s cheek.

“I do.”

Crowley licked his lips and Aziraphale could see that his teeth had grown longer, the tips sharper. Crowley’s eyes were almost completely gold.

“I should talk you out of this,” the Vampire said, “But I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Aziraphale’s who buried his fingers in red, soft hair once again.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that but when Crowley pulled back, slowly and carefully, his face had lost any traces of humanity and still he was the most beautiful creature Aziraphale had ever seen.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked again, “There’s no going back.”

“I’m sure, my love.”

Over the course of the last five years, Aziraphale had let Crowley drink his blood every now and again. None of it had been an emergency like that very first time. In fact, Crowley would have been very much fine without it, but – Aziraphale couldn’t explain it, actually. It wasn’t like it was _pleasant_ having a set of razor-sharp teeth rip into your throat and suck the very thing out of you that you needed to survive. On the other hand, it wasn’t not pleasant either. It didn’t hurt, for one thing. Past the initial bite, the only thing Aziraphale felt was warmth and a curious kind of tingling that spread through his whole body, leaving his mind somewhat numb. Crowley never took more than absolutely necessary and the worst Aziraphale had ever gotten afterwards was a headache.

This time was no different. Aziraphale could feel where Crowley’s mouth touched his skin, could feel where the teeth entered his neck, could feel the warmth and the tingling spread all through his body while Crowley held him close with strong, steady arms. He felt safe. That was perhaps the strangest thing. Aziraphale knew he was dying, he was going to die, and soon, and yet he was not scared.

His brain was filled with fog, his vision turned blurry, his body felt heavy.

Crowley pulled away, and Aziraphale could feel himself being gently lowered into the soft pillows, before something was pressed against his lips and the acrid, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Aziraphale knew that taste had gotten to know it so very well when he’d joined the order, had learned to hate it, and yet now, he welcomed it because this was Crowley’s blood and he trusted Crowley.

The last thing Aziraphale saw before the darkness swallowed him was Crowley’s face, his golden eyes filled with fear and love and tears, and a weak smile on his lips.

* * *

Adam felt incredibly uneasy. Warlock had assured him time and time again that it would be fine, that there was no reason to worry, that they knew what they were doing, and yet – Adam couldn’t help it.

He should have probably expected something like this. After all, Fell and Crowley had been in some kind of relationship for going on 30 years now and they were clearly willing to die for each other. Still. When Warlock had first let it slip what Fell was planning, Adam had been angry. He still was, but it felt different now. More resigned, somehow. Adam wasn’t even sure why, just that the thought of sweet Mr. Fell being confined to a life in shadows and darkness didn’t feel right.

“It’s not your decision,” Warlock had reminded him the previous night.

How he could be so calm about the whole thing was beyond Adam, but then Warlock had grown up with a Vampire for a father. He had always that Crowley would survive him. The concept, to Warlock, was perhaps not as outlandish as it was to Adam.

_It’ll be fine_ , Adam told himself now, staring unseeingly at the TV.

It was getting late. Tomorrow, he would have to get up early to get to the Order’s headquarters and Warlock would have to go to Soho and open the shop since Fell –

Anyway.

He shouldn’t worry, was the point. Worrying wouldn’t so anyone any good. Warlock wasn’t worried, after all. The others – well, they didn’t know, not yet, but if they did they probably wouldn’t be too worried either. Brian was an optimist, always trying to make the best of things. Wensleydale approached problems with logic and rationale. Pepper was too headstrong to let something this lead her astray

_It’ll be fine._

Adam actually didn’t know much about the process, something he would like to keep that way. For some reason, Vampires still made him queasy. They shouldn’t, by all means. Adam was a member of the High Council of the Crown’s Order, the youngest in centuries, he dealt with all kinds of supernatural beings on a daily basis, and yet…

But Warlock was right of course. It wasn’t his decision.

The TV screen was dark. Adam wasn’t sure when Warlock had turned it off but he must have because his boyfriend was now gently steering him towards what had once been Crowley’s bedroom. They had redecorated. Adam couldn’t stand the total darkness that had always reigned over the room. Over the whole flat. Now the window was visible and barely covered by flimsy, white curtains that were more for show than anything else, and above the bed, fairy lights shed a warm glow throughout the room. It was their home now.

“Have you ever considered doing it as well?” Adam asked, his voice low and unsure whether he wanted to know the answer.

Warlock closed his arms around him. “Once,” he whispered, “I was 16 and I asked dad if he would turn me.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said that I should ask him again when I was 50 and still wanted it but he would never unleash a teenage Vampire onto the world”

They both chuckled and Adam found himself relaxing slightly. He was with Warlock and Warlock wouldn’t go anywhere any time soon. He had his friends and his family. He had a whole life in front of him.

_It’ll be fine_ , he thought as he closed his eyes and for the first time in weeks, he believed that it would.

* * *

Aziraphale opened his eyes.

He had lived in the same flat for over 20 years, had slept in the same bed, breathed the same air, had watched the same shadows on his bedroom wall. He knew every shape, every corner, every edge. He knew the smell of his books and the sounds of the building. It was his world.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and the world had changed.

Outside, it was dark and yet he could see everything clearly. The old wardrobe, the bookshelf, the chest of drawers, it all seemed to glow in a hundred different colours he’d never seen before.

Somewhere down on the street, in the side alley between the houses, a rat nibbled on some chips. He could smell it. He could hear its tiny heartbeat.

He knew Crowley was there. No smell. No heartbeat.

Aziraphale shifted, trying to speak but he couldn’t. His mouth was dry, his body was stiff, he felt…different.

“Angel.” The word was nothing more than a whisper, but it might as well have been shouted right into his ear. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

There was a hand on his shoulder tightening its hold and Aziraphale realised he was leaning against Crowley’s chest. Once more he opened his mouth but Crowley shushed him with a soft sound.

“Don’t try to speak,” he whispered, “Not yet.” Crowley shifted slightly, reaching for something on the chest of drawers next to the bed. “You need to eat.”

The smell of blood drowned out everything else, flooding Aziraphale’s sense, and the bag was placed against his lips.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Crowley muttered over and over again, like a prayer, cradling him in his arms, peppering kisses against his hair, as Aziraphale drank stilling the burning he hadn’t even noticed had been there, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“Crowley,” Azirapahle groaned.

“I’m here, angel.”

“My love.”

“Yours. Forever yours.”

It was yet another beginning to misplace, to lose, to find again years and years later. Until then and now lay forever. It was a very long time. And the stuff inbetween, the exciting bits, would one day be another story.


End file.
